Not A Game
by ficscribbler
Summary: Marguerite is separated from the others, and unless she can begin to grasp what they have shown her about being a family, she will never find her way home. (8 chapters, complete)
1. Chapter 1 - Fate

**Not A Game**

Summary: _Marguerite is separated from the others, and unless she can begin to grasp what they have shown her about being a family, she will never find her way home._

Disclaimer: _The Lost World does not belong to me. *sigh* It belongs to New Line Television, The Over the Hill Gang, et al, …_

Originally Posted July 2002 – Revised May 2013

**Chapter 1 It Was Fate**

The slender brunette stopped as she detected a hint of wood smoke on the breeze that wafted across her path. Warily, Marguerite moved toward its origin, her soft-soled boots making no sound as she slowly and carefully placed each foot. For the moment she left her bow untouched, and kept a hand on the hilt of her knife instead.

It was still quite early; the sun had only been up for about an hour. She'd planned to travel several miles in this direction before making a mid-morning stop. By then she should be in the territory of a headhunting tribe, and she would lay low until she was sure they weren't out and about. _I shouldn't be close enough to the headhunters' territory yet for one of their groups to be the source of the wood smoke. But it could be slavers, lizard men, plateau natives, villagers who are descendants of who-knows-what nation from any one of a dozen time periods… or… _it could be her former companions.

She shunted that thought away; not only was it unwelcome, it was unlikely after so long. _Whoever's fire it is, it pays to know who's moving around, and where to watch for them. I don't fancy having to either fight or con my way out of danger this morning, so a little extra caution is in order. I should be safe enough if I can stay in the shadows._

Her clothing from off-plateau had grown threadbare months ago, and she'd adopted a style similar to Veronica's abbreviated animal skin clothing - only more moderate in length. The coloring of the mottled hide skirt, tunic, and boots were good camouflage in the jungle, and with her long thick dark hair there was no color to distinguish her from the tree trunks and shadows around her, if she chose to stand still or to rest motionless above ground on a tree limb.

_Stillness is a good way to avoid danger. That's one lesson about surviving in the jungle that I didn't need to learn from John._ Even thinking his name caused her stomach to clench, and she silently cursed her wayward thoughts. _I need to stay focused on the present_, she sternly reminded herself.

She didn't have to veer very far from her planned route to find the source of the smoke. When she spotted the camp in the small clearing ahead and to the right, she stopped abruptly in the shadows and bushes a good twenty feet from the site. _Bloody marvelous! Could this day get any better?! _It was her former housemates after all.

They were the last people she wanted to meet, and naturally, when she least expected it, there they were – well, at least, it was the younger three; Veronica, Ned, …. and Roxton.

She was taken aback at the way it hurt, seeing them again.

Until this moment, she'd thought that she'd succeeded in hardening her heart against the memories and the pain. But to her chagrin she found that the ache was as bad, if not worse, than the day it had happened.

_I miss them_, she realized, lips thinning as she suppressed the urge to cry out her anguish at the sight of the trio. _This is absurd! How did I ever let my guard down so badly in the first place - and why the devil can I still feel like this when I know it's completely nonsensical?! _

It was appalling to find that she still mourned them, regardless of the harsh reminder they'd given her about trusting others. Even worse, despite knowing better, her heart apparently continued to yearn for their companionship, for their friendship… for the family she'd foolishly, stupidly, almost believed she'd found.

So, doltish as it was to indulge such ludicrous weakness – not to mention the danger inherent in the rapidly mounting odds as each additional second added to the risk that she would be discovered by one of the two highly-skilled hunters – she lingered, keenly studying the trio, hungry to take in everything about them.

Ned Malone was nearest to her, facing partially away; his clean-cut profile seemed so young, though there was strength there, too, after their years on the plateau. He was apparently still boyishly good-humored – a trait she recalled resenting deeply first thing in the mornings – because his chuckle and softly-pitched pleasant tone were easily audible at this distance. It looked like he'd finally made his feelings known to Veronica. They were obviously and openly in love, exchanging glances and light physical contact quite casually as they sat side-by-side at the small campfire finishing breakfast, preparing their weapons, and talking in low voices.

Ned and Veronica both looked to be in good health, sun-bronzed as usual, no sign of recent injuries. Veronica still wore her customary loin-cloth skirt and halter top, and had her knives tucked into their usual sheaths at her waist. She was also armed with Marguerite's old rifle, handling it quite as naturally now as if she'd been doing it all her life instead of only for a few seasons. She was almost facing Marguerite's position, but her attention was on Ned, not on the jungle around them, which was another testimony to the couple's changed relationship.

John's back was to Marguerite, and of course Lord John Roxton was fully armed, shoulder holsters, rifle, another gun belt strapped around his trim hips, belt knife. He had that same disgustingly-battered hat set back in a rakish manner on his head. He held up a pistol and squinted through the gun barrel into the sunlight, making sure the passage was clear and ready for action. To do this, he had to turn a little more toward Marguerite. He looked . . . _too bloody good for my peace of mind!_ Although she knew she'd later regret the indulgence, she stared avidly to examine each familiar feature. His dark hair had grown longish again, curling in the tropic heat. Ned made a teasing comment – the actual words didn't register in Marguerite's mind – and the British lord smiled that same achingly familiar, charmingly lopsided grin. Yet to her critical eyes, he seemed a little on the gaunt side, the humor didn't reach his quiet hazel-green eyes, and there were wrinkles about his face that she didn't remember seeing before. _Lines of care, of worry…_ She realized what she was doing, and grimly stopped herself._ Lord Roxton's emotional well-being is none of my concern_.

She could see they were nearly ready to break camp. They must be heading home, because their packs were far from full, and their clothes already showed the dirt of long days on the trail. Relieved, the watcher decided it was best to remain where she was. _The tree house is the other direction from where I'm standing; they won't come this way. Safest to just stay put until they leave._

Since moving away might draw unwanted attention, and necessity required her to keep a wary eye on them anyway, Marguerite wryly indulged her weaker nature; she feasted her eyes on every little detail as the trio finished breakfast and began to repack their kits. She watched them quietly, unable to keep from smiling a little at sight of their familiar movements around the camp site, and the sound of their casual, friendly morning banter as they cleaned their plates with a minimum of water from Veronica's water skin.

John glanced around suddenly, his piercing green eyes darkening into hazel-brown as he scanned the surrounding jungle in the direction of the shadows that so precariously hid Marguerite from them.

She had to steel herself to remain immobile instead of taking an instinctive step back. He would notice any sudden movement. But she did lower her head a trifle so that she watched him from beneath her dark lashes instead of directly. _Shouldn't have stared, shouldn't have looked directly at them for so long,_ she scolded herself. She'd learned early in life about the maxim that if a watcher stared directly at their prey it could give them away; she'd experienced it for herself long before she'd found herself stuck in this lost world, long before Roxton and Veronica had warned the explorers that skilled hunters and trackers developed a sixth sense about such things.

Roxton's gaze swept the area once, then again, more slowly this time, as he rose to his feet.

"What is it?" Veronica asked, rising, too, one hand resting on the hilt of a knife in readiness. Ned stood as well, following the huntress's lead by unbuttoning his pistol's holster.

The hunter keenly examined the perimeter a third time before he turned to his concerned companions, shaking his head. "I just had a feeling," he shrugged, mentally shaking off his disappointment at having seen nothing out of the ordinary. _For a moment there I hoped… but I can't dwell on false hopes_. "We should get moving. Challenger will be expecting us."

Suppressing her panic, the vulnerable watcher seized the moment to swiftly unfurl the plaited whip coiled at her hip. One smooth motion of her arm, and its length sailed noiselessly up and over a branch high above, dropping back down over the other side. She caught the descending end, and held still again, her gray eyes never leaving the taller man in the small clearing ahead of her. _He won't let it go; I know he won't let it go… Wait for it now… Steady… Steady…_

Roxton paused and looked in her direction again, sensing the movement and that same presence again. His brow creased. The jungle was constantly in motion, still he was almost positive . . .

Veronica and Ned both reached for their weapons as he tensed for the second time in as many minutes. "Raptors?" Ned asked softly.

"No." He shook his head slowly, once again searching the shadows. _I know it's improbable, but I won't be able to leave here until I'm positive. _He took one step towards the edge of the small clearing.

Marguerite, heart pounding, edged her foot into the loop she had braided into the handle of her whip, which now rested on the ground. She wrapped the dangling end around her hand with a smooth twist of her wrist. _No, no, no!_ _Stay there! Don't come any closer! I can't talk to you – I won't!_

"It's…" He continued to search the wooded terrain with narrowed eyes, hesitant to put his feeling into words. _Is it real this time, or only another trick of my imagination?_ "Marguerite."

Veronica instinctively moved toward him, but then froze as a lifetime of training and practical experience kicked in: Never move without a plan. Life can be endangered by one thoughtless act. She stood poised to react as her sky blue eyes dissected their surroundings with a mixture of dread and eagerness.

Ned caught his breath sharply, torn between hope and skepticism, too. He resisted the urge to follow the example of the hunters and instead watched them, knowing that if there was anything to see, one or both of them would spot it. How often had they played out this scenario in the last months? They had deluded themselves far too often to allow themselves to hope too quickly – especially poor Roxton, who wanted, needed, so badly to find some sign of her.

Although he was all too well aware that his companions were unconvinced, Roxton couldn't write it off. Not as long as there was the faintest chance that he was right. "I feel her," the hunter didn't look away from the shadows, reaching out mentally for the elusive presence and afraid he would lose it if he wasn't careful. "I haven't felt her so strongly… in months." The assurance in his voice strengthened as a shiver ran down his spine. His brow furrowed as he sought some physical sign to affirm his growing conviction that this time it wasn't mere wishful thinking. "She's nearby. I'm sure of it!"

Knowing what their friend had gone through, and having seen the connection between the older couple so many times through the years, neither Malone nor Veronica questioned his statement any further. If there was even a remote possibility, they had to try, for Roxton's peace of mind, if nothing else. "Marguerite?" Veronica called out tentatively, anxiously. "Marguerite! Come out! Talk to us! Please!"

Ned's sharp blue eyes examined the perimeter, too. "Do you see her? Hear anything?"

"I can't spot her," Roxton growled in frustration, "But I _know_ she's here!"

A familiar prickle at the back of the huntress's neck made her shiver in recognition. _He could be right! That's the same feeling I used to have when she was glaring angrily at me and obviously wishing me in Hades!_ "Marguerite!" Veronica shouted, more urgently this time. She turned in a complete circle in order to scan the shadows the jungle, now as positive as Roxton that their friend was nearby. "We're sorry! We were wrong! Please, Marguerite, come back to us!" She caught a glimpse of movement and took a hasty step forward. In her excitement, she slipped on a piece of leftover firewood and fell even as she saw that what had caught her eye had only been a falling twig.

Roxton and Ned both moved instinctively to steady or catch her, though neither man was close enough to keep Veronica from hitting the ground

_This is it – NOW!_ The moment the hunter's attention was diverted, the dark-haired beauty pulled sharply, hand-over-hand, up the doubled whip. Each yank lifted her higher and higher, and she re-coiled the whip as she went, with the automatic ease of much practice.

She'd discovered this combination of hand-over-hand climbing and pulling action on a rope hung over a high beam – in this case, using a whip over a branch – back in her youth, when clandestinely entering and exiting buildings. She'd used it often during her days as a thief, and had honed it to perfection as a triple agent during the war. With her foot in a loop, and the combined hand and pulley action, she could shoot up into the air with incredible speed. It had saved her from discovery too many times to count, first helping her elude school administrators, teachers or fellow-students, then aiding in her evasion of police, civilian and military guards, and foreign intelligence agents. She'd even escaped assassins a time or two with this highly skilled trick. She could only hope it would be as effective today, against trackers of Roxton and Veronica's caliber.

By the time the men had helped Veronica to her feet again, Marguerite was swinging onto a branch far above the ground, safely out of sight in the heavy jungle canopy.

Roxton, when he turned back to the shadows after making certain his companion was all right, instantly realized there was a difference. Something he had seen before was not there now. Something paler than the tree trunks… it had been – _there_! Almost against that tree trunk! But it was gone now.

He strode quickly toward that location, keeping his eyes trained on it so he could go directly to the right place. Veronica and Ned followed, alertly monitoring the tropical undergrowth and mostly-virgin groundcover around the tree to which Roxton led them. After almost five years on the plateau, even Ned was a better-than-average tracker and could discern the faint trail where someone had approached, and then stopped. "Those aren't Marguerite's boot prints," he said in disappointment.

"No, they're not her European boot prints. But it's her size." Roxton said, gaze still on the ground as he read the signs. He ignored the possibility that anyone else could have made the faint tracks; it had to be Marguerite. "And I can still _feel_ her. She's not leaving much of a trail. She's really improved," he couldn't help but admire the new skill evidenced by the fact that she'd hardly left a mark behind.

"But where did the tracks disappear to?" Veronica asked, also following the minimal sign left by their unseen watcher. There were a few tell-tale hints of incoming tracks, but she couldn't locate anything outgoing. "There's nothing else! The trail just ends." There were no rocks or fallen logs nearby that Marguerite could have jumped to, no way to have hidden her trail. She looked up, eyes searching the thick foliage above their heads.

Having expected this, Marguerite had already climbed higher and softly pressed herself to the massive trunk, flattening against it. She crouched on the large, stable limb two above the one she'd originally mounted, and peered guardedly down between locks of her quickly-loosened hair. She could barely see through the dense leaves, so she should be safe from their searching eyes here, as long as she was perfectly motionless.

Roxton looked upwards, too, and shook his head. "It's too far to the nearest branch. She couldn't have gotten up there." Nonetheless, he scanned the branches, just as Veronica did, hoping against hope to see the dark-haired beauty clinging to a tree limb above them. _Nothing. Yet I still feel as if she's close enough to touch!_ He huffed impatiently and turned in a circle again, seeking a hint of any path she might have taken. Coming up empty, he tossed caution to the winds and shouted to the surrounding jungle, as Veronica had done minutes earlier: "Marguerite! Marguerite!"

The trio on the ground waited, poised to move in any direction, listening in vain for a response.

Silence reigned for a long moment, and then the normal jungle cacophony, quieted by his unexpected shouting, resumed. He cocked his head and concentrated, searching for some anomaly in the animal or bird noises that might indicate which direction she had fled. But there was no sound of any alarmed jungle denizens.

The handsome nobleman took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. "I don't know where she's gone, but I _know_ she was here. She must have covered her tracks somehow." He slapped his hat against his leg in discouragement. "It's been so long!"

"We don't really know it was her," Ned pointed out reluctantly. "If it was Marguerite, why would she run from us?"

Expression crumpling, Veronica turned toward Ned, who opened his arms to embrace her as she moaned, "Face it - we betrayed her! She'll never give us another chance to hurt her like that! And can you blame her?" Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sheltered against the younger man's lean body. "Oh, Ned, I miss her so much! How I wish we could make that awful day go away!" she sobbed.

"I know Veronica, me too." Ned met John's eyes over the blonde's bowed head, his own grief and regret evident on his fair countenance even as he tenderly patted Veronica's back. "We were all wrong, terribly wrong. I wish I could see her and tell her how sorry - " Ned's voice broke, and he hastily cleared his throat, trying to be strong for Veronica and Roxton. "But if those tracks are hers, she's gone now. Most likely it wasn't her, any more than it was her the other times we thought we'd found some sign of her. Come on; let's finish getting the camp cleaned up." He turned her and gently guided her back toward the camp clearing, whispering soothing words to her as they went.

John Roxton stood in place a moment longer, trying to puzzle out the mystery of where she could have gone. "Marguerite," he said, quietly, open pain in his cultured voice, "Marguerite, if you can hear me, forgive me! I'm so sorry. I know I failed you, and I can't forgive myself, not without knowing you're all right. Please, _please…_ _forgive me and come home_."

No reply. Regardless of how intently he strained to listen for the faintest whisper, the only sounds were the normal chatter of jungle creatures and the rustling of wind through the foliage.

His broad shoulders slumped in defeat, and Lord Roxton turned toward the campsite with a heavy sigh.

High overhead, Marguerite impatiently wiped away tears. _Crying - again?! Over them?!_ She cursed herself for her own weakness, for permitting herself to be affected by their emotions. _Let them be sorry! They should be sorry!_

_After knowing me for over four years, turning all my goals and priorities upside down, and worming their way into my heart, making themselves out to be my friends – no, to be my family! - my true love! - all that rot about honor, trusting one another - how everyone deserved a second chance - after all I went through, struggling to trust them, to learn to be one of them, adopting their stupid principles - when I'd finally begun to believe, to hope for a future – Lies. When it came right down to it, it was all lies. I should have known better._

She was the one who was supposed to be the thief, the con artist, the manipulator who cared only for herself, the skeptic who knew the real score, the one with the heart of ice . . . But they had managed to completely fool her.

Marguerite swallowed hard, feeling once again the jagged, tearing pain in her chest as the memories seethed just beneath the surface. It was almost as if she really had a broken heart, broken by the people she had wrongfully believed cared for her.

_Well, no one will ever wound me like that again. I'll never allow anyone this kind of power over me again._ _This daft heart of mine is re-buried for good this time, right along with anything I ever felt for these supposedly-idealistic, two-faced explorers. _

So why in the world was she still weeping over this unexpected encounter? _Why can't I simply be angry with them, as they deserve for their betrayal? How can I be so foolish that my heart feels broken anew?_ _Why am I longing for the safety of John's embrace? After all, he turned out to be just like every other man, exactly as I initially expected. He broke his promises to always be there for me, to never let me go, to always stand by me no matter what. When push came to shove, he threw me to the wolves for the good of the party, just as he first said he would. The others did the same. _

Yet despite these things, she had to fight a ludicrously strong impulse to call out to them, to accept their pitiful apologies and try again. _I must be going insane!_

Refusing to yield to the madness, she defiantly wiped away her own tears and stayed on her perch, craning her neck to see through the heavy foliage so she could watch them break camp. The trio moved slowly, their gaze often lingering on their surroundings, clearly still hoping to see some sign of her. With so many pauses, it took a long time to finish, but eventually they could delay no longer. As Ned reluctantly pointed out to his companions, Challenger was waiting for them back at the tree house, and they were still a couple days away from home.

With one last longing look beyond the clearing, Veronica took point, Ned a few steps behind, and John Roxton brought up the rear, rifle cradled in his arm, at the ready.

Marguerite waited until a good hour had passed with no sign of their return, carefully monitoring for any disturbance in the normal activity of the birds and insects, and doing her best not to allow her thoughts to drift toward the others. She repeatedly scolded herself when she realized her mind had wandered back to the confidence with which Veronica had turned to Ned, or the openly affectionate way Ned's hand had stroked Veronica's hair...or the achingly familiar warmth that had stirred in her at the sound of John's voice. _Stop that! Focus on making certain that they're gone! _ To her relief – _no, that's absolutely NOT regret!_ – all the signs continued to indicate that she was alone.

Finally deciding enough time had passed, she stood slowly, balanced easily on the broad tree limb, and stretched thoroughly to work out the kinks of squatting motionless for so long. Then, after one more thorough scan for any sign of surveillance, she began to descend, resolutely instructing herself to erase the departed explorers from her mind. _I have my own life to lead now, and it's time to get on with it._ She grimly reminded herself that there was no going back. _The past can never be reclaimed. I've seen it time and again. You'd think I'd have learned that lesson long ago._

No, she definitely didn't want to risk any chance of bumping into _them_. Instead of continuing toward her destination today, she would leave this foray for another time, and head back towards her home. _No need to tempt fate_, she concluded humorlessly. _Fate always seems to win._


	2. Chapter 2 - The Game Begins

**Chapter 2 The Game Begins**

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

7,067 words

Thank you for the reviews, and thanks to readers who chose to "follow" and/or "favorite" this story.

Re Quadrantje's question about why she hadn't seen this story before if it was originally posted in '02: during a period when revised its policies and made site adjustments to accommodate the growing volume of users, it was often difficult loading, formatting, adding new chapters, etc. In frustration, some of us removed all our posted stories. By the time I started re-posting here again in 2010, most of my early un-beta'd (un-edited) stories had been revised. Although readers liked "Not A Game" as originally posted, there were a number of character and plot issues that needed work, and I wanted to delve deeper into R&M's point of view as well as add an epilogue. _Zakiyah_ and _DNash_'s input was invaluable during the long re-write process. "Not A Game" is now more than twice its original length, and I hope readers will enjoy the story's added depth.

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW

When John Roxton felt the tiny drop of moisture fall from the tree onto his forearm just at the very moment he began to follow Ned and Veronica back to the clearing, he nearly stopped in his tracks. It required massive self-control not to look up into the tree. By sheer force of will, he kept walking, arguing silently with himself.

_She can't be up there._

_There's no way she could've climbed that tree - the lowest branch is nearly fifteen feet off the jungle floor, the trunk is too thick to get a hold around, there are no stubs hanging off for a hand or foot hold. She can't be up there._

_There are often droplets on the trees from condensation that builds up in this torrid tropic heat. It's probably just a bit of the usual jungle moisture, nothing more._ Yet he couldn't shake the certainty that it was proof of her presence.

Roxton eyed the single drop of liquid that remained on his forearm, functioning on automation as he participated in the routine of breaking camp. It fascinated him. If, by some miracle, this was a sign of her presence, then since she hadn't responded to their words, she obviously wasn't willing to talk to them. _Truth be told, it'd be me in particular that she's not willing to talk to… if she's there, which is unlikely. Not that I would blame her for keeping mum, if on some off chance she really is up there and heard us apologize and still hid from us… from me. I doubt that anyone who betrayed her in the past ever admitted they were in the wrong, so even if she's up there… would she know what to make of what she heard? Of course, there were plenty of times in the last few years when we had to admit fault to one another… but it was never about anything as important as this._

Roxton continued to work even as his mind whirled. _If… and that's a highly improbable "if"… if she somehow managed to climb up into that tree… if there's even the slightest chance that I might have the chance to see her again, to talk to her again… then other than repeating myself, what more can I say or do to convince her believe that we're sorry and want her to come home? Not that she's really there, so it's a moot point. It's absurd to get my hopes up when the odds are next to nil that she'd be up in that tree…_

His heart was pounding at the thought that there was even the slightest chance that she was up there, regardless of how many times he told himself it wasn't logical. _When has logic every applied on this bloody plateau?! If God is giving me a second chance, then I have to get this right. She's already on the defensive. I have to be careful not to do anything that would give her cause to run, at least until I figure out how to approach her again._

Reminding himself again that the drop of moisture was most likely just jungle condensation, he still couldn't rid himself of the idea that it might also have been a drop of perspiration, or water from a canteen. _It's crazy to even think, to hope…_ c_anopy moisture, that's all it is. _But as he packed his backpack, he steeled himself to face the truth and casually touched his forearm where the droplet had fallen. Then he raised the tiny dab of liquid to his tongue.

Salty! Canopy moisture wasn't salty! He almost stopped breathing. _It can't be salty from my skin; it'll be another three or four hours before it'll be hot enough for me to break a sweat today. This has to be a tear._ Memories assailed Roxton, leaving him reeling as he vividly remembered the few times he'd tasted Marguerite's tears, kissing them away from her cheeks to comfort her in her sorrow, or that most significant of moments when their lips met lovingly and she wept with joy. These thoughts in turn brought home the memory of other tears, the ones he'd failed to heed, left uncomforted. The memories were so powerful that he couldn't breathe for a long moment, finally sucking in a deep breath that made Veronica cast him a sympathetic look. _She thinks I'm on the verge of tears, but it's not me who's crying – it's Marguerite! She has to be up there, somehow, someway, she's here!_

But she hadn't answered their calls. She didn't want to talk, didn't want to see them, and they'd given her genuine cause to feel that way. He forced himself to stay in the clearing with Veronica and Ned, to think it through, though his stomach roiled in protest. _I have to find her – have to be with her_.

_She's crying. My Marguerite is crying. She's still hurt. I hurt her so badly that she, who so rarely cries, is still crying months after the pain wiped the color from her face. Everything I told her, promised her, showed her - gone in one horrendous day. _

No, she wouldn't want to see him or talk to him, not after that day.

He could alert the others, turn right now, and march over to that tree. He and Ned could boost Veronica up to bring Marguerite down if she wouldn't come voluntarily. Between the three of them, they could compel her to return to the tree house with them, give her no choice in the matter. But if she couldn't trust them and didn't want to stay – which was undoubtedly how she'd feel, especially if they confronted her as a group and tried to force her forgiveness – she would only leave again.

He barely managed not to double over and hurl up his breakfast at the very thought of her disappearing so completely again for even a day, let alone for three quarters of a year, or, maybe, this time forever. In the face of his companion's watchful worry, he'd spent every day of the last nine months pretending he was coping with her absence from his life. Yet he was well aware that he'd lost his edge, was too often distracted when his life – or theirs – might depend on his attentiveness, and wasn't reacting as quickly as he would have… before. No one had called him on it yet; but he'd noticed the subtle ways each of them, even Ned, were covering for his lapses.

No, if the evidence of his senses was correct and Marguerite was here, then he couldn't risk losing her again. He'd never survive without her.

_If only I could find out where she's been all this time and make sure that she's doing all right wherever she's living! Then maybe I could begin to drop by to visit her there. I could try to win back her trust a little at a time. If I just knew where to find her, if I could see for myself that she's okay, then maybe, eventually, I might be able to win her back again. _

The knot in his stomach eased as he considered this idea, and suddenly he could see light at the end of this interminably long, dark tunnel he'd been traveling without Marguerite. _This is it! Instead of confronting her, I have to follow her, find out where she lives, and work my way back into her good graces. Alone. It'll have to be alone, in case I get the chance to talk to her. There are so many things I need to say to her, things between she and I that she wouldn't want the others to hear. Yes, going it alone is my best chance for success, maybe the only chance to be a part of her life again. I have to take it slowly – little steps. That's the ticket. I won her before by earning her trust a little at a time. I can do this, even if it takes another three years. I'd do anything for another chance, anything to make up for what we did… for what I did._

Having decided on his plan – wouldn't Marguerite be surprised to know he had an actual plan in mind! – he went on packing up as if his heart wasn't pounding hard enough to force itself from his chest, and then followed Ned and Veronica until they were out of sight of the clearing where they had camped. Only then did he stop and tell the other two that he was going back.

When he explained about the bead of moisture, Ned protested, "Roxton, that could have been anything."

"Even if she is somewhere nearby, you can't just go alone to look for her," Veronica chimed in, her eyes darkening with distress. She understood that he needed to believe this, and hated to see her friend like this, so hopeful and yet so desperate.

"I have to," he responded flatly, more life in his dark green eyes than his friends had seen for months. "Go home to Challenger, and pray that I can find Marguerite again." The tautness of his lean body revealed his anxiety about returning to the clearing as soon as possible.

It was impossible, absurd… but if he was right, if she was there as he believed, they both knew John had the best chance – and the greatest need – to convince her to come back to them. Veronica and Ned looked at each other, their doubts, concerns, and hopes evident to each other in their expressions. Yet Roxton had been so lost, so quiet without Marguerite… and there was no doubt about the energy and purpose that was now animating the hunter.

Finally Ned nodded. "Sometimes you have to try things on your own, no matter how strange it seems or all the arguments against it." His blue eyes gleamed with the memory of his decisions to set out alone for his own journey of discovery. "Good luck, Roxton. Bring her home."

"If you aren't back in a month, I'm coming back to find you," Veronica promised. Her lips curved upward in a tremulous smile. "Don't stay away too long. And if you find her…"

"I'll find her," Lord Roxton said simply.

And despite everything, Ned and Veronica couldn't help but believe him. Their faces gleaming with renewed hope and suppressed excitement, the blonde couple nodded and set out eagerly for the tree house with lighter steps and hearts.

The hunter didn't even wait until they were out of sight before he turned back the way they'd come. Exercising more self-control than he'd known he could, John crept back, slowly, circling around cautiously to be downwind. It took precious time, but he was positive that Marguerite wouldn't risk showing herself until she was certain they were gone. He found a good vantage point to watch that tree and its neighbors, and settled in, flat on the ground beneath the thick jungle underbrush.

Then he waited, denying the adrenaline pumping through his veins, repeatedly reassuring himself that she was there, that it really had been her presence he'd sensed, that he'd see her again if he resisted the urge to rush headlong back to that tree and up into the branches until he had her in his arms.

So he waited. And waited. And waited some more.

His muscles were knotted with the ache of strained power that could be given no outlet, and he'd begun to think he'd been wrong after all – it had been so long now, and Marguerite had never been known for her patience – when motion attracted his eye and he saw a vine suddenly drop into sight, dangling from the very tree he'd been watching.

No, not a vine! A rope?

A shadowed figure descended so rapidly that at first he thought she was falling. _No! I'm too far away to get there in time to catch her!_

Fortunately, before he could give himself away by scrambling forward as she dropped below the branches of the lowest canopy level, he realized the descent was smooth, controlled by arm and hands. He breathed a sigh of relief, and settled back to his stomach beneath the shrubs.

When she reached the jungle floor he saw her shake a booted foot once, freeing it from a rawhide loop he only noticed once she wasn't standing in it. She shifted her grip on the rope, and he could now discern that there were two strands of the cord. Retaining one end as the two strands separated, she pulled on it with a quick, graceful gesture.

Roxton heard only a hint of a whistling sound as the loose end traveled back up, over the branch he'd been sure she couldn't reach, and fell to the ground at her side. _A whip. It's a whip, and she used it in some sort of pulley-like system, with the branch as a fulcrum. It's like her own private elevator_, he realized with awe. He watched in fascination as the slender brunette expertly coiled the whip and attached it at her waist with a thong that was obviously meant for that purpose.

Once again suppressing an inadvisable urge to run forward, embrace her and never let her go again, he concentrated instead on how she looked and the details of her appearance.

Her hair tumbled in masses of thick waves over her shoulders and down her back – _She climbed a tree with her hair unbound like that? She's lucky she didn't end up tangled in the_ – His irritation at her carelessness was stilled as she raised her hands, gathered her hair and deftly tied it back into a single ponytail, using a thin leather strip from around her wrist. John noted that there was already a crimp at that length of her hair, showing that it had been tied up for quite some time that morning. _She must've let her hair loose to help camouflage her position in the tree. Smart!_ _No wonder all three of us missed seeing her before, what with the way she looks! _Her skin was honey-gold, not as bronzed as Veronica's but far from her former peaches and cream complexion. Her knee-high boots were made of mottled brown hide, modeled after Veronica's. Her skirt and top seemed to be of the same material; he liked the way the skirt had swayed gently about her knees as she'd coiled the whip and then as she tended her hair. She had no hat, no rifle or handgun, but she did have a knife sheath beside her whip, and she carried a bow and a quiver of arrows over her shoulder. She also had a hide-skin bag for water and another for provisions, worn crossed over her torso so that they hung at either hip, leaving her hands free. The browns and golds of cloth, skin, hair and weapons blended in almost perfectly with the jungle around her, so long as she stood still.

And she was motionless now, except for those silvery green eyes, which swept the jungle with alert caution. He noted her every movement, watching for the slightest sign that she was about to take to her heels. Behind too much brush to clearly read her expression, far enough that there was no way she could detect his irregular breathing, he nonetheless deliberately regulated and quieted himself, more than a little afraid he would somehow give himself away. She was thorough, and impressively patient, not taking a step until she had scanned everything around her. Only then did she turn and start out in the direction opposite to the one taken by her former housemates. She adopted a graceful, easy lope, setting herself a good pace that would quickly eat away distance. In only a moment she was out of sight again.

Roxton let out his breath slowly and rose to his feet, resisting the panic that threatened as his view was cut off by the jungle between them. He swiftly jogged to where she'd been only seconds before, pausing only long enough for his keen eye to note the minimal tell-tales of her passage. Then he broke into a long-legged lope of his own to close the distance between them – at least enough to bring her back into his view, but not so close that she might detect the sounds of his pursuit.

A smile crept onto his face, and he didn't bother to restrain it. _She's alive. Thank God she's alive! She's alive, and she's healthy!_ All this time – he'd hardly dared to admit even in his own mind that he'd clung to hope; there hadn't been a single sign to indicate that his optimism was justified - until now. _She's still alive!_ The thought echoed in his mind, and the ache that had settled into his chest nine months ago finally eased a little. _Marguerite is alive!_

And she was incredible! The wood lore she'd developed in the past months was impressive – or perhaps she'd been absorbing skills all along, but simply hadn't had the opportunity to display them. He'd continually lectured her about survival skills here, as had Veronica. Marguerite was certainly applying those lectures now. He grinned, his pride in her warring with ruefulness at his culpability in believing that she hadn't taken them seriously. _I should have known she was constantly listening despite appearances to the contrary!_

_But she certainly never learned that bit with the whip from Veronica or me_, he thought admiringly as he maintained a carefully discreet distance from the slender brunette ahead of him. _It appears that she's mastered the necessary skills for survival, with her usual capacity to fend for herself. She must have made her own clothing and weapons, she's obviously managed to feed and shelter herself adequately, and she's learned to nearly conceal her movements in the wild._

He exercised extraordinary caution as he followed her, wary of his own trail as well as hers. It was a tricky challenge. He had to stay far enough back not to alert Marguerite, but close enough to keep her in sight. _If she decides to scoot up a tree again, I don't want to discover it by finding the sudden end of her footprints. It'll be too late by then, and she'll have spotted me._

As the morning wore on Roxton was astonished and impressed with her stamina, and also with her awareness of her surroundings. The old Marguerite, who had so often demanded rests during their treks around the plateau, was nowhere in evidence as the hours passed. She barely slowed, even to drink from her water skin, and she only came to a complete halt twice.

The first time, she suddenly veered to the right only to turn and sit back on her heels at the base of a tree, facing the way she had come so she could observe her back trail.

Roxton had scarcely ducked out of sight in time to avoid her seeing him.

The second time she stopped, it was to throw herself beneath shrubs mere seconds before a group of slavers rounded the bend of the faint footpath she followed. She laid still mere inches from them, knife in hand, as the fifteen unkempt men filed by her scarcely-concealed position.

Roxton pressed his back to the nearest tree trunk, his rifle ready in case anyone happened to look down to the right. Fortunately, no one did. The undisciplined column of men went on, never guessing what a treasure they'd had within their grasp.

After that, Marguerite left the footpath and headed through the jungle brush, slipping through the undergrowth at a slower pace and checking direction often, needing to be more careful since she was breaking her own trail instead of following any of the faint paths that had been left by man or beast as they crisscrossed the plateau.

Right around noon she ate her 'lunch' as she sat on a rock by a stream. Roxton was impressed anew as he watched her consume a strip of dried raptor and a handful of berries and nuts. Her eyes never stopped scanning and she never stopped listening to the jungle around her, even when she took a long drink from her water skin. After she ate, she knelt by the gurgling water and splashed her face and forearms to refresh herself before she refilled her water bag. With the day's heat fully in effect, she spent a couple extra minutes to re-tie her long hair into a twist down her back. Then she resumed her journey.

Roxton followed, but his delight in having her within sight was now tempered by a growing concern.

_She's doing just fine out here on her own._ The realization provoked mixed feelings; while he was proud of the skill and savvy she was exhibiting, it left him with a dilemma. _She relied on my skills and strengths to keep her safe, before we… well, before. After all, if she hadn't needed my abilities for her own survival here in the beginning, I'd probably never have had the chance to know her well enough to discover the real Marguerite behind the façade, and to fall in love with her._ He could admit that to himself now, although he hadn't even realized the nature of his feelings in the beginning, and he'd fought against acknowledging that he'd fallen in love long after he'd known. Not nearly as long as Marguerite had fought against admitting she loved him in return, but still… _Marguerite has always valued her independence; if she'd been able to do all this back then, she'd have kept herself closed off from all of us. She never would have stayed with us long enough to learn to love me, or to care about the others either. So if she doesn't need us any more in order to be safe here… what will draw her back to us? What can I offer her, what might she accept from me now that I've lost her trust and forfeited her love?_

Wait… something different was happening. Roxton's gaze sharpened as he noted that she was no longer moving forward with the assurance of the morning. Marguerite seemed to be increasingly uneasy. She paused more often to listen and to watch, especially in his direction, off to the left side behind her.

Roxton moved cautiously off to the right of her trail, unsure if she'd spotted him.

It proved to be a good precaution, because a few minutes later Marguerite suddenly doubled back, veering off to the left to scout her own back trail. He had a few bad moments as she drew closer to where he'd switched to the right, but she paused a few yards shy of crossing his tracks. _That was close! If I hadn't moved when I did, she'd have seen my trail, and she'd have known someone was following her. I doubt she'd have suspected it was me, but it would have scared her. I'd have had to tell her I'm here, and it's too soon. She has no reason to trust me; she's not likely to listen to anything I have to say._

His stomach lurched as memories resurfaced again, and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. _Until I can prove myself, prove my intentions, I'm just as likely to scare her as any headhunter or slaver on her trail._

Finding no sign of pursuit, she took one more look behind her, brow puckered in concentration, before she faced forward again. Roxton grinned, relieved at avoiding discovery and confrontation. _She definitely paid attention to Veronica and me. She executed that move exactly as we demonstrated over and over when we were trying to teach the others to check on whether they were being followed._

Towards dusk she began to look for a place to camp for the night. About half an hour before it would've been too dark to travel safely without a torch, Marguerite found a deadfall where a passing dinosaur had uprooted a large banyan, which had taken out several smaller trees when it crashed down. After a quick examination of the site's perimeter, she eased through the tangled branches to the relatively clear ground she'd noticed beneath the fallen tree. She still seemed jumpy; she moved almost restlessly within her small site and studied her surroundings from almost half a dozen angles before she finally selected a place to settle down within the circumference of the deadfall.

Roxton crept nearer, inch by inch, utilizing every bit of cover, wanting to be close at hand if she was threatened during the night. He wriggled slowly and silently up a nearby tree, and settled himself in a juncture that would safely hold his body. From his vantage point – _the closest I've been to her in the last nine months_, he grieved – he could see the rise and fall of her chest with each breath she took as she sat cross-legged beneath the branches.

She'd chosen well, he noted, again with pride that was shadowed with worry. _No fire, no blankets, no water supply or apparent food supply, nothing to attract attention, and this place is surrounded by dried bark and twigs that'll crackle loudly if anything steps on it. The deadfall itself provides an effective perimeter fence that any attacker would have to contend with in order to reach her. It's just the kind of place I'd look for myself if I wasn't' sure I could wedge myself into a tree securely enough to stay put while asleep._

She ate more dried raptor, nuts, and berries from her pouch, and drank sparingly from her water skin. When she lay down, she kept her knife in her hand; the whip, bow and arrows she placed beside her, within easy reach. But although she'd had a full, physically active day, she slept fitfully; she woke often throughout the night and carefully checked the jungle around her.

_Perhaps she hasn't become quite as self-sufficient as I thought_, he mused, half-ashamed of his relief as he ate sparingly from his own scanty rations. _Maybe she doesn't need us the way she did, but she's still better off with us… If only I can convince her of that. _

As the hours passed, his concern increased, keeping him wakeful despite the long, tiring day. _She'll be exhausted in the morning, at this rate. And now that I'm this close and can see her better… she's too thin. _ She'd always been slender, of course. But she had lost about ten, maybe fifteen pounds since he had seen her last, far too much weight to lose off her delicate frame. _Not an ounce of extra flesh, and she's far too tense. She's completely on edge even while she's dozing. She can't always be like this, or she'd never have survived this long alone. She'd have been too tired to stay alert. Good thing I'm close enough to step in if she runs into any trouble._

A half dozen times during the night he almost yielded to his desire to join her, to hold her in his arms, to reassure her that she was safe because he was with her. Only the dread that she would rebuff him held him in place so nearby without revealing himself to her. _Wait_, he sternly rebuked himself again and again; _watch. Stick to the plan. Find out where she's living. Then it'll be okay to talk to her. I have to wait for the right time, or I won't get the chance to prove myself again. For now, I'm lucky just to be this near._ Roxton stood guard over her all night, sleeping little despite his own fatigue, troubled over her nervous and fitful slumber, yet also glad to be in such close proximity to this woman he loved so deeply, and thankful to once again have the privilege of watching over her.

With the dawn she didn't bother trying to doze off again. She sat up, sheathed her knife, settled her two bags over her shoulders, and stretched wearily. She rolled her shoulders, unbraided her hair and ran impatient hands through the tangled curls to sweep out the leaves and bark before she re-braided the unruly mass. Finally, she secured her whip to its fastening, shrugged on the quiver and the bow, and then straightened to her feet. She stood motionless, only moving her eyes as she waited quietly for the sun to rise.

The hunter nodded approvingly as he watched her thorough care in assessing her environment, marveling anew at how well she had mastered jungle survival skills. The only fault he found with her preparations was that she didn't eat something while she waited for the sunrise to confirm which way she needed to travel.

Once she could see the deep orange gleam of the sun as it tipped over the horizon, she adjusted her direction and started out. To his relief, she ate and drank on the move. She had to be exhausted after the distance she'd covered yesterday and the poor quality of sleep she'd had last night – he certainly was – yet she was still moving with fluid grace. But there was something about the way she was holding herself that troubled the hunter shadowing her trail. It was if she was . . .

_Frightened_. Marguerite was clearly skittish, spooked about something. She had her bow in hand not an hour into the day's travel. Twice she pulled her bow around into position to fire, arrow notched, ready to let it fly as she spun and faced down her back trail, so fast that Roxton barely saw her do it. But she found no target. Each time, after turning in a circle to scan the jungle all around her, she reluctantly continued on. Her pace slowed more and more, and the glances over her shoulder became more frequent.

Roxton's brow furrowed as he followed her, reviewing the situation. _She was increasingly tense yesterday, and it only grew worse last night. This isn't just taking normal precautions because her intuition says she should be careful. Now she's scared, too. She's acting like she believes she's in danger._

He had long ago learned to trust her instincts, and since she was uptight, he was extra mindful of keeping his trail to a minimum and staying under cover. Fatigue was forgotten as his adrenaline rose. He had to fight his inclination to reveal himself so that he could ease her apprehension and reassure her that she wasn't alone. _If someone's following her, I don't want to give away my presence and position. I have to stay available in case Marguerite needs my help._

After several hours, Marguerite abruptly sidestepped to cross an area relatively free of the usual jungle ferns and shrubbery, and pressed her back to a tree trunk as she warily surveyed her surroundings for the fourteenth time since she'd stepped out of the deadfall at sunrise.

Roxton squatted on his heels between several thorny bushes, careful not to touch them, and divided his attention between watching her and scanning the jungle to locate what was bothering her. He couldn't spot anything, either visually or audibly, that hinted at what might be affecting her.

Apparently, she couldn't either.

But she stayed right where she was for the rest of the morning. Once more he found himself marveling at her patience – no fidgeting, no fussing, and no sign of the frustration that had so often characterized her behavior in the past. Torn between approval of her discipline and exasperation at this confirmation that she'd always been capable of much more self-control than she'd usually exhibited, he suppressed a yawn as he pondered the undeniable evidence before him. _Even after she admitted she loved me, and stopped hiding the fact that she cared about each of the others, she still didn't reveal to us that she was capable of this kind of patience. Why didn't she? Will I ever understand why she does such things?_

His attention was reclaimed by the present when Marguerite shifted position slightly, angling her body more directly toward him. Her gaze swept over his position without pausing, to his relief. _Better pay more attention to what she's doing now, and less to what she's done in the past_, he rebuked himself. _Besides, I'm sure any ground won in gaining her trust and learning about her is going to have to be regained from scratch. I need to study her and base my strategies on what's happening now, not on where we were before, so I can figure out how to approach her_. So he waited and watched.

At noon she sighed, shook her head and finally sat down. She opened one of her pouches, took out her provisions, and ate lunch, much as she had at the stream the day before.

And then she sat there.

She just sat there!

John couldn't get over the patience she was displaying. _Although_, he reminded himself, _it makes sense that Marguerite must have exercised plenty of patience as an international jewel thief, and also as a triple agent, or she'd never have succeeded at either. Maybe she simply hasn't had anything she wanted to be patient about since we met and were stranded together – well, other than her search for the Ouroboros. But now that she's alone again, she has no choice but to be patient in order to survive, like before we knew her. If Veronica and the others could see her now, they'd be flabbergasted!_

She barely moved, although her eyes once again never rested long on any one thing. Gradually, as he witnessed her taut watchfulness, he realized that Marguerite didn't merely suspect danger was near; she was absolutely certain of it. _She's full expecting someone or something to come into view. Now what is it that she's sensing? What am I missing?_ Suddenly it dawned on him, and he shook his head ruefully, cursing himself for not realizing it sooner. It was so obvious! _She knows I'm here! She knows I'm watching her! She feels my presence, just as I felt hers yesterday morning!_

He remembered, now that it had come to mind, how often she had simply known he was watching her, had sensed his eyes on her. He had teased her about it, but she'd only replied haughtily that it was an instinct for self-preservation. Just the same, he'd always suspected she was privately delighted to know John was watching her so often.

If she was feeling it today, as she had before that disastrous episode nine months ago, then it explained her increasing restlessness on the trail, her interrupted sleep, and why she had come to a halt.

_If she's realized that it's me following her but keeping from sight, then she's probably also deduced that I want to know where she's been living. But she won't have any idea what my intentions are once I find the place where she's staying, and she certainly has no reason to expect anything good coming of my finding her, not the way things stand between us. She must have heard what we said when we were below her perch in that tree, but that wasn't much to weigh against what we did to her… especially what I did to her. We're back to square one. I've lost her trust, her belief in me. That's why she scared – and I can't say I blame her. She's not going to welcome me back with open arms. Marguerite stopping like this is her way of telling me that she knows it's me following her, and that she isn't going to lead me to her home._

Smart and stubborn – fire and steel – just like in the beginning.

How long would she keep this up? Exactly how much restraint did his lady have? How long would she brazen it out? He certainly wasn't going to give in before achieving his goal, not when failure meant losing her. She'd vanished for nine endless months, and if he didn't follow through on finding out where she was based now, she'd be gone for good. _The odds are too high that approaching her now will cost me the chance to make sure I can find her again, which is the only way I have any shot at winning her back._ _She won't come back with me today, I know she won't. It's going to take time, so I can't confront her before I have an Ace in the hole. Once I know where to find her again, then… _His heart leapt in anticipation of the moment when it would be safe to reveal himself, to begin coaxing her to trust him again, to finally come home. _I can do this. I can outwait her, make her question whether she's really sensing me. She can't sit there forever. Eventually she has to move on._ _If she wants to challenge me, well, I'll give her an opponent to match her move for move._

He and Marguerite had matched wits often in the early days of being stranded on the plateau; she was a wily adversary, and trying to outmaneuver her would take all his hunting skill and globally-gleaned savvy. Especially since she was apparently more his equal in wilderness survival skills now than she had been when they'd first arrived here. This could be fun, much like when he and William had played at outsmarting one another as their childhood games had become mock hunts around the sprawling grounds of Avebury and even friendly rivalries while away at school. How they had enjoyed challenging one another's skills, testing one another's limits, vying to best one another!

His early relationship with Marguerite had been a similar series of competitions against one another, pushing one another's boundaries, studying each other and playing subtle – and sometimes not-so-subtle – games of one-upsmanship. As with William, such games had strengthened the bonds between himself and Marguerite. It could do the same now. Win or lose, this game could be his foot in the door, the first step in rebuilding their relationship. Grinning at having found a positive addition to his goal of locating her home, Roxton settled in to play the game, his guilt and unhappy memories fading as he watched her with appreciation, beginning to enjoy the situation.

If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he had more patience than Marguerite Krux. If she didn't move, he wouldn't either. And when she finally gave up waiting and resumed her journey, even if she was more guarded while she continued to question what she was sensing, he would have more time to observe her new skills. Moreover, every step she took would bring them closer to his discovery of her current home. All he had to do for now was sit tight.

The afternoon stretched on, and Roxton found it increasingly difficult to fight his own fatigue and stay alert. Marguerite was like a statue, except once when she reached out for some nearby sticks in order to pull them back to herself. It looked like she was checking them out as possible arrows, he decided. But after setting them aside, she returned to her former stillness.

The sun began to sink and the shadows to lengthen. Still Marguerite rested against the tree trunk, unmoving.

Or did she?

He blinked and refocused.

_Is she there? The way the shadows look now as the sun sets…._

After struggling briefly to make sense of what his fatigue-blurred eyes saw, Roxton decided enough was enough. If she was there, he'd be confirming his presence and maybe blowing the last opportunity he'd have… but he had to know. He stood slowly, rising from the shrubs, and, when there was no reaction from the shadows, walked to the tree trunk.

The lack of response told him before he reached the tree that she was gone. The outline he'd thought was Marguerite was a bundle of sticks that had been left leaning against the tree trunk where she had been sitting. She was gone.

"Oh, very good, Marguerite," he chuckled, impressed anew. "Very, very good!"

He looked up into the foliage of the tree. She must've used her whip again, probably tossing it up over a branch at the same time she'd reached for one of these sticks to redirect his attention. Then she could have pulled herself up slowly, bit by bit, as the dusky dimness spread and hid her movement. _She could've been gone two minutes, or for as long as an hour_, he realized, slapping his hat against his leg in mingled disgust and admiration.

He clapped the hat back on his head and studied the surrounding area. With the distance that these branches spread out from the gnarled trunk, she could have dropped back out of the tree twenty feet away in any direction. She'd have quite a lead on him by tomorrow morning, when it would be light enough for him to pick up her trail again. And she was forewarned that he was coming. Roxton found himself grinning again, even though she was no longer within his sight. He hadn't smiled this much in one day since she'd disappeared those long months ago.

Filled with anticipation for the coming dawn, he settled down in the same spot she'd sat in earlier, and leaned back against the tree that had aided in her evasion of him. Yes, this was just like the hunting games he'd told Marguerite about playing with his brother William. And it was also comfortably akin to the skirmishes he and Marguerite had so enjoyed with one another these past few years.

_The game is definitely on! The minx will sleep like a baby tonight, knowing she put one over on me like this. But she can't have gone so far that I won't be able to track her down again. Let her have her little head start for now. I'll catch up with her soon enough. This hide-and-seek isn't quite what I planned to win her back again, but it's a good light-hearted start; it just might do the trick. _Smiling up at the glimmers of moonlight visible through the leafy canopy above him, Roxton contemplated the process ahead. This was going to be fun!


	3. Chapter 3 - Not a Game

**Chapter 3 Not A Game**

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

Lord John Roxton crouched down as he heard male voices on the other side of the jungle undergrowth ahead. He hadn't seen the natives yet, but the cadence of their words didn't have the same sounds as the familiar Zanga tongue. In the adventurer's experience, anyone speaking an unknown language needed to be regarded with caution – a lesson they'd all had to relearn without Marguerite and her gift for languages. When she'd been with them, hearing only a few sentences usually enabled her to gain a sense of whether a tribe would be a threat or not, and she'd been more often right than wrong. She'd have known whether to proceed or avoid these people – a luxury he didn't have. _We didn't appreciate her linguistic skill enough in the past, taking it – and her – too much for granted._ Now she'd also developed an amazing depth of wilderness skills, or perhaps she'd always had them and now she'd simply honed them to a level that proved she was well able to survive on her own on this bloody plateau.

He'd been following her for four days now, and he had learned a healthy respect for her imaginative ways of hiding her tracks, and her devious designs to delay him. She was obviously moving through territory that was familiar to her, and she'd taken full advantage of her knowledge to try to discourage him into giving up the chase. Up until now he hadn't been threatened with any serious bodily injury, but had only been led into situations that hindered his pursuit. He was pretty sure he still hadn't cleaned all of the mud out of his boots, and he'd discarded a pair of trousers and a shirt that had been torn beyond mending by the hidden barbs in seemingly-harmless shrubbery through which her path had led him. Instead of causing him to quit in disgust, though, each display of her ingenuity had increased his admiration of his opponent and renewed his desire and determination to match her every move. _She may have a lead on me, but there's no way I'm giving up. I just have to stay alert._

Well aware that every other time he'd seen her trail as clearly as this, it had only been because she had some new trick up her sleeve, he edged closer to the voices, dropping to his belly beneath some brush and wriggling forward until he reached a position where he could peer through the foliage. There was a small group of brown-skinned natives working in a field between their bamboo-fenced village and the jungle's edge.

Given Marguerite's skill with languages and the creative streak he was beginning to dread, running across these natives was likely to be another deliberate distraction she's set up to misdirect him. He didn't want to risk losing another day, not with her trail so enticingly recent. _By my estimate, Marguerite must have passed this way within the last two hours, which is the closest I've been to her since I lost half the day in that bloody blog she led me into two days ago._ He could almost taste the victory as he closed in on her today, making up for lost ground. But something wasn't right with what he was seeing. He raised himself cautiously to one knee to get a better vantage point.

_Hmm. No women in sight outside the village; looks like the men of this tribe do the agricultural work._ These men should have reacted instantly to a woman walking out of the jungle, yet even from his current position he could see that Marguerite's footprints led straight down one unplanted row of the field toward the gates, her gait unbroken, no hint of interception by the natives. _There should be some sign of a disturbance generated by the arrival of a visitor, whether they already know her or not. But everything looks calm and peaceful. Maybe they're accustomed to visitors, then, or maybe they're a mixed community where strangers might come and go without a stir? No, there's no variation in the type of_ _clothing worn by the men, no bustle of busy commercial activity, just a typically primitive native group. Why would she choose to go into a village now, after avoiding the other ones we passed near in the last couple days? She must know I'm close behind her. Is this where she's been living? Is she counting on these people to befriend her, to shield her from me? _He shook his head at the thought; it didn't feel like the right answer.

_Perhaps she's hoping I'll lose her trail amidst the plethora of other tracks that will undoubtedly be coming and going from a more densely populated area such as this one. Or maybe she just needed supplies, as I do._

Roxton scouted as much of the village as he could see without moving.

_She wouldn't set some sort of ambush, would she? _He considered it briefly, but rejected the idea. Although Marguerite had good cause to be angry with him, her evasion so far hadn't included anything that might endanger him – well, except that once, and he didn't believe that had been deliberate. He'd been too sure he was about to overtake her and hadn't paid enough attention. _Even Ned would've noticed the signs that should have warned me that there was questionable ground ahead. Marguerite certainly noticed and evaded the same problem. She probably didn't expect me to miss the obvious danger when she laid those tracks to mislead me. The fact that I foolishly ended up in a T-Rex nest is solely my own fault. No, I'm positive she only meant to make me take the time to confirm that it was a false trail, time to allow her to increase the distance between us._

All her tactics had been designed to lose him or to stall him, not to injure him in any way. _Of course, I've been pushing her hard. If she feels cornered… No, I'm not that close to catching her yet. I'll have to be more careful once she finally leads me to where she's been living. But her coming here must be more of the same, just something to slow me down, to give her some distance and restock her supplies at the same time. She's betting that I'll yield to the temptation to pick up supplies, too. _

The natives seemed peaceful enough as plateau natives went. Universally tall and lean, the men of this village wore a lot of feathers, and carried bows, arrows, spears, and axes even as they tilled the soil. All the weapons had stone tips, no sign of iron or more advanced metals. The women and children he could see moving inside the village wore no feathers - or anything else, it seemed - and stayed within the bamboo palisade. It was a prosperous village, large enough to sustain itself and defend itself, and the people all seemed to be quite cheerful.

Yet even though he definitely could've used fresh supplies, Roxton decided he couldn't afford to waste a lot of time here. _I'm only a couple hours behind her, at most, _he reminded himself_. _Her footprints were still clearly visible straight to the gate. But she was bound to have gone on through, or to have found a way to slip by unnoticed along the outskirts – _could she have come through here in the mists of early dawn, unnoticed? Is she further ahead of me than I thought? No,_ he quickly quashed the alarming thought._ The trail is too fresh._

He backed away from his observation position, carefully, smiling as he anticipated the end of the game. He'd follow the perimeter around and look for where she'd continued on with their competition.

_Four days, now. Twice I was close enough to see her – at a distance, at least. She's making me work hard for her trail. She has to be exhausted, putting so much continual effort into eluding me. I'm tired just tracking her, and I'm far more experienced and hardier than she is, even now. The more tired she becomes, the more likely it is that she'll make mistakes. She can't keep this up for more than another day or two without risking losing so much acuity that she's in danger of becoming dino fodder. She knows how dangerous it is; she'll have to head for home. Then I'll have her._

He moved cautiously around the village, still concealed by the jungle that surrounded it, searching for sign that Marguerite had passed back into the jungle. Every sense was alert, alive to possibilities. He hadn't felt so energetic, so . . . perfectly aware of everything around him . . . since she'd left the tree house. He was having a great time, thoroughly enjoying this challenging sport that Marguerite was providing to him.

Aside from the intriguing fact that he hadn't actually caught her yet, it was turning out to be a most fulfilling chase, much more fun than when he'd played this game with his older brother so long ago. In fact, she was nearly the most elusive prey that he'd faced in his entire varied career as a hunter. _She might be less experienced than me, but her ingenuity and resourcefulness are a constant delight. I can see how she succeeded as Parsifal_. _She uses anything that comes to hand or mind – as long as it won't harm me._ That in itself was one of the most encouraging, delightful aspects of the game; regardless of how they'd parted ways, his lady still cared enough about him that she'd avoided a number of tactics that could have injured or even killed him – and those were just the ones he'd recognized. With her strategic brilliance, she'd probably been aware of multiple other opportunities to do him physical harm that he never would have anticipated. _She still has tender feelings for me; the way she's playing the game proves it! _

His attention was drawn sharply back to his current dilemma when the villagers in the field spotted him. _Blast! I should have been more careful!_ He briefly considered trying to elude them, but it would mean losing precious time sneaking back to relocate Marguerite's trail. _Best to brazen it out_.

He tensed as they ran toward him, but the men were smiling and they made no move toward their weapons. Instead they greeted him effusively: arms extended with open hands, they jabbered in their sing-song, lyrical tongue. They surrounded him, and shuffled back to their village, taking him along with them by default. There were far too many to fight, and anyway, Marguerite hadn't led him into any danger so far – at least, not deliberately – so he went along without protest. But he kept his guard up just the same.

He was taken to an enormous fireside built before the largest hut – the chief's, he assumed – and was brought face to… well, face to chest of the tallest man he had ever met – _well, aside from that giant from El Dorado_. The top of the chief's head, without including the multi-colored feathers that adorned him, had to reach at least eight feet high! Obeying the gestures of his enthusiastic escort, Roxton was seated beside the tribe's leader. The natives gave him meat, fruit, and drink while the chief regaled him with a long speech, none of which he understood, of course. The food was tasty, and suspicious as he might be, they were all eating from the same serving bowls. And after all, when he'd first started following Marguerite, he'd only had enough supplies left for two days, enough to get home to the tree house. Keeping up with his lady had left no time for hunting or foraging. For the last day and a half he'd been on water and whatever roots and berries he could scavenge wherever he passed, which while enough to keep him going, had definitely left him hungry. A wise man always ate when opportunity presented itself when he was on the trail.

The feast lasted several hours, and then there was entertainment. Every time Roxton tried to get up to leave, strong hands on his shoulders indicated to him that it would be better to continue accepting their hospitality. The natives smiled, but they were firm. And every person in the village joined them around the large fire, from the smallest toddler to the oldest tribal elder, who had to be carried in on a pallet.

They all watched John with merry eyes and friendly smiles, chattering to one another as they passed around platter after platter of dried and fire-fresh meats, fruit and breads. There were dancers, both male and female, fire eaters, magicians, a team of some sort of clowns who pantomimed a series of comic pratfalls that made even Roxton laugh, and a dozen singers who serenaded the chief and his guest with minor-keyed chants. The happy natives kept the party going until long after dark.

Only when the children were falling asleep in their mothers' laps did the men escort John Roxton to a small hut not far from the chief's much more elaborate structure, and motion for him to enter. They finally left him alone in the "guest quarters", which contained a passably comfortable pallet, a filled water bowl, and a sanitary trench in one corner.

John waited a little while before he warily checked outside the cloth-covered doorway. _Still too many people milling about to make a break for it._ After the third time he looked and found natives hanging around outside, still smiling and cheerful, he resigned himself to spending the night. No chance to get away, so he may as well sleep and try to catch up on his rest.

As he stretched out on the pallet, he briefly debated whether his hosts might be considering their hospitality to be the equivalent of the fattening of the sacrificial calf. But if they intended to eat him in the morning, well, he would deal with that when the time came. He wouldn't go down easily, no matter how outnumbered he might be.

Taking the precaution of keeping his Webleys in hand, he closed his eyes. At least he could be thankful the bedding was positioned at the furthest corner from the sanitary ditch, since it was attached to the wall and couldn't have been moved. And there was always the bonus that this time to sleep in relative security would replenish his energy; he'd be able to think more clearly and move faster tomorrow, whether it was to resume catching up with Marguerite or to fight his way free of the natives.

His rest was undisturbed by unwanted visitors, and in the morning, his concern proved to be groundless. There was another big feast, and some more speech making by the chief. Then the whole tribe turned out and walked with him to the other end of the village, apparently merely to give him a rousing send off. With laughter and their usual chattering, eyes sparkling, they brought forth enough provisions to last several more days, and a rolled piece of bark that the chief himself placed into his hands with many sing-song words he didn't understand.

Roxton nodded his thanks, somewhat bemused by the entire process, and walked away to the edge of the jungle, his rifle ready, fully prepared to break into a run or dive for cover all the way across the field to the edge of the jungle, but no one followed him. He didn't break stride until he was well into the jungle again, and then, with a tree at his back as he faced the way he'd come, he finally stopped to examine the rolled bit of bark.

Why would such a thing be given to a stranger who wouldn't be able to understand the tribe's writing – a map of some kind, perhaps? Or simply a token offered by custom to visitors? It looked like a scroll. As he carefully unrolled it and recognized the handwriting, he started to chuckle.

It was a letter from Marguerite!

She must have arranged this entire reception at the village! She was such a delight! Heaven only know what she'd offered them for their cooperation, but of course it had been another delaying tactic.

Roxton's smile faded as he read the neatly lettered missive.

_"Lord Roxton, Since you were on your way home when our paths crossed, and it was only a two day journey, I'm sure you are low on food and supplies by now. I would not want to be justifiably accused of causing your death, so I arranged for you to be provisioned at this lovely little village. I suggest you use the supplies you now possess to go back to your own life. You're supposed to be protecting the Challenger Expedition, remember? By your unanimous decision, I'm no longer a member of that party. Go play your silly games with the others."_ She signed it, simply, _"M"_.

Somberly now, he reread it again, slowly, and his heart sank.

She was right.

This should not be a game.

He'd forgotten, in the pleasure of interacting with her again even at a distance, that Marguerite had good reason not to take this pursuit lightly. Well, no, he hadn't forgotten, that wasn't the right word; but in his delight at discovering that she was alive and nearby he'd buried the cause of their separation. His focus had been on the challenge of the chase and anticipation of their reunion. Added to what he'd already done to her, his playful competitive attitude of the last five days was inexcusable. She wasn't enjoying this as he was, wasn't just playing a familiar hunting game, although clearly she understood that it was exactly what he was doing.

She may have arranged his provisioning humorously, but this was definitely not a game to Marguerite. It was deadly serious.

"Justifiably accused." "Unanimous decision." That was the crux of the matter, and she was letting him know she was far from forgetting how she had been cast out of the tree house.

He'd succeeded in pushing it to the back of his mind for a little while, concentrating solely on the invigorating contest of skill and wits, and putting off dealing with the daunting fact that merely catching up with Marguerite and following her to where she lived wouldn't make everything all right again.

_It was a mistake to let myself forget what I did – what we all did – and Marguerite has every right to rub my nose in it and make me face the truth._ The entire thing had been a miserable, unforgivable error of the highest magnitude. Lord John Roxton knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would forever regret what had taken place over nine months ago.


	4. Chapter 4 - Betrayal Remembered

**Chapter 4 Betrayal Remembered  
**

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

The circumstances had piled up so rapidly, catching them all by surprise.

Jewels had been stolen from another tribe, taken from their temple. The Marobi's trackers and their angry warriors trailed the culprit to the Zanga village. Jacoba had warily welcomed the delegation that approached the gates, having been forewarned by his sentries that the rest of the large band of warriors was spreading out all around the palisades of the Zanga village. The emissaries informed the Zanga chief of the situation and demanded their treasure back, declaring that they would wage war on the Zanga until the culprit and the jewels were handed over to them.

Jacoba called a council of elders, including his 'goddess' daughter Assai and her mate Jarl, to discuss a response to the unexpected threat, but no one knew what to do. The accusation made no sense to them, since the Zanga people did not value the type of gems that were considered precious and sacred to the Marobi. An intermediary would be needed to sort out what was really happening, if war was to be averted.

The other tribe's emissaries were asked to return to the leaders of the war party to relay a protest of the Zanga's innocence and to request the acceptance of a mediator by whose decision both tribes would abide. To entice the Marobi to accept, Jacoba offered to pay a forfeit – the life-long service of his dozen best warriors – if the judgment went against the Zanga.

Sure of the fact that they'd traced the thief to the Zanga village, the Marobi had no fear that any mediator would judge against their cause. The offer was a virtual guarantee that their sacred treasure would be restored and justice would be served, without risk of creating widows in their home village – after all, the Zanga palisades were formidable and the Zanga warriors were quite capable of inflicting serious casualties in defense of their home. They could wait a little for the arrival of a mediator when it meant they'd accomplish their goal and have the bonus of gaining twelve renowned fighters for their ranks. The emissaries returned and smugly accepted Jacoba's proposal.

The chief ordered Jarl to send a drum message to their friends, the tree house dwellers. It wasn't the first time the Europeans had been called upon to arbitrate disputes on behalf of one of the local tribes. George Challenger was a respected wise man, and with a huntress like Veronica and a marksman like Roxton to back him up, he had been successful in preventing several conflicts even among bitter rivals. Both the Marobi and the Zanga could trust them.

Coincidentally, Marguerite had "gotten lost" that very day, having gone alone to gather her favorite berries. She'd lost track of where she was during the several hours she worked, and only realized her predicament when both of her baskets were filled to overflowing. After over an hour wandering around looking for familiar landmarks, she'd finally spotted a Zanga path marker and followed the trail back to Assai's village. She'd arrived only about twenty minutes before the first warnings about the approaching Marobi.

As a representative of the tree house family, Marguerite had been present at Assai's side during the council in the center of the village when the Marobi made their accusations and demands, and when Jacoba gave the order to send for her housemates. She remained a silent observer until a Zanga hunter entered the council hut and said he'd seen the pale-skinned woman place something in a tree outside the village, and although he hadn't thought anything of it at the time, given the new situation, perhaps it should be checked?

Assai told her friends later that the brunette had been visibly startled by the man's words. She'd protested her innocence, naturally, and had wanted to accompany the Marobi and Zanga party that converged on the tree. Jacoba, ever the wily politician, insisted she remain within the palisade to be guarded by him during the investigation – thus retaining possession of the possible culprit for future bargaining with his opponents and simultaneously keeping himself safely beyond the reach of the warriors surrounding his village.

Word of the recovery of the other tribe's missing treasure reached the people within the village walls almost as soon as the gems were extracted from the hollow in the tree. Marguerite's indignant denials that she'd had anything to do with placing them there were ignored. After all, she'd traded all sorts of valuable goods for similar pretty stones from many of the Zanga people over the last few years, and everyone knew how she valued them. And although she'd never stolen from them – at least, not that anyone knew of – it was well known that Marguerite's own people labeled her a thief.

By the time the tree house quartet arrived in force, the partial evidence of Marguerite's crime had already been presented to the village elders, verifying her guilt in the eyes of everyone present, and she was in custody, awaiting Challenger's arrival, despite the fact that the seizure and search of her pack and her person had not produced a single sign of the remainder of the sacred gemstones.

Despite their renewed outrage, the Marobi had agreed to wait on the famous Challenger's arrival for the return of the entire temple treasure and judgment of the culprit, but they were restlessly angry and wanted immediate action taken to avenge the sacrilege perpetrated on their holy site.

Marguerite's friends heard the testimony of the Zanga hunter and of the party that had gone out to the hollow tree. Knowing how the natives admired and respected a show of power and knowledge, Challenger marched out to the damning site with Veronica and Roxton and "supervised" while they checked it out for themselves. Unfortunately, the tracks around the tree were completely jumbled by the overlapping footprints of the group who had gone to the tree earlier to search it. Neither of the expert trackers could discern if Marguerite's tracks were present or not. So there was no way to prove or to disprove whether she'd been near that tree with its incriminating hollow hiding place. But there was no doubt that the glittering stones retrieved from the hollow were exactly the type of item the mercenary brunette was always hunting. And according to the Marobi delegates that remained within the palisade to parlay with Jacoba and Challenger, the recovered samples were the lesser quality stones in their blessed treasure. There were half a dozen much more splendid gems still missing. It would be like Marguerite to keep the very best of the treasure with her.

After talking with Jacoba, Assai and Jarl, and the Zanga hunter, and examining the evidence, the four friends had gone to the hut where their dark-haired companion was being held, and asked for her side of the story.

Marguerite, to no one's initial surprise, insisted that she'd been nowhere near the Marobi temple and their sacred treasure, and that although she'd passed that tree on her way into the village, she hadn't stopped and hadn't even been aware that there was a hollow space in that tree. She told them the Zanga hunter, Tahumai, must be mistaken somehow, or maybe the man was outright lying – a concept no one accepted despite Marguerite's demand to know why they weren't investigating _him._ After all, there was no possible reason for the man to have falsely accused her.

She argued that the fact that she didn't have the remaining gems proved she wasn't the culprit. Veronica answered that as someone had suggested when they'd pointed out that very fact, she could have hidden them in the village after the Marobi arrived, but she retorted that she'd been with Assai from the moment she arrived until they'd shut her into the hut with a guard on the door.

At Challenger's request, Jacoba ordered a search of everywhere the two women had been together, and nothing was found. Marguerite was exasperated when the chief concluded that she had simply hidden the gems somewhere they hadn't thought of yet.

Marguerite insisted she'd been berry picking, not temple-looting. But she couldn't identify exactly where she'd been, impatiently reminding her inquisitors that she'd been lost. When asked how she'd found her way to the Zanga if she didn't know where she was, even Roxton was skeptical about her claim to have simply stumbled across a territorial marker that enabled her to gain a general idea of her location. She had no way to prove she'd really been picking berries, she said, because she'd eaten some for lunch and thrown the baskets away to distract raptors from chasing her. Asked why she'd gone off alone to begin with, given that it was against their safety rules – not to mention the fact that she was so rarely seen anywhere without Roxton – she dryly answered that it was exactly because she was so rarely seen without Roxton that she'd wanted some time to herself.

Unfortunately, Jacoba thought it more likely that she had gone off on her own because she knew that Lord Roxton would not allow her to do what she intended to do – take the Marobi treasure. Everyone knew the nobleman had always disapproved of her preoccupation with the baubles. None of her other comrades would have permitted her to desecrate a temple, either, when it came right down to it.

Moreover, even Roxton had to admit it was something she might resort to if she thought she had a foolproof plan. It hadn't helped that he'd recently incurred her wrath for refusing to interrupt their regularly scheduled chores and mapping trips to investigate several promising new sources of gemstones. Everyone in the tree house had heard her furious insistence that if he wouldn't help her, she'd find some other way to add to the wealth she intended to take with her when they left the plateau, and his exasperated retort that she could just go right ahead and do that, and see how far she'd get without him to do her fetching and carrying. It wasn't beyond belief that she would use the Marobi temple treasure solely to rub his nose in the fact that she could do as she pleased.

With no other possible culprit available and so much circumstantial evidence against her, and the Marobi campfires and war songs encircling the Zanga compound, her friends reluctantly accepted that Marguerite had been fairly accused. Challenger urged her to turn over the rest of the gems, or at least to tell the Marobi where she'd hidden them. He vowed to do his utmost to ensure her safety, promising that once she gave back what she'd taken from the Marobi's temple, mercy would be extended to her. He could practically guarantee that with Roxton, Veronica, and Ned reinforcing him, he would be able to secure her freedom.

Marguerite, jaw clenched and eyes flashing indignant fire, had sarcastically thanked him for nothing.

Veronica and Ned each took a turn talking privately to her as well, trying to convince her to yield, but she stubbornly persisted in her story that she'd merely been lost all day.

John was the last one to try. Despite his outwardly staunch defense of her up until this point, the situation struck at the heart of one of his deepest fears: that in her craving for wealth, she wouldn't be satisfied with his love and care for her, and would choose to move on if it looked like she could do better elsewhere. He'd been so preoccupied with his anxiety that the alleged theft from a sacred site was the first sign of her leaving him behind, his doubts had been obvious to Marguerite, if not to the others.

Stung by his lack of faith in her, Marguerite had resorted to her finely honed sarcasm about whether she was guilty or not, leaving it open to interpretation. This, in turn, reinforced his fear. He'd hoped she was beyond all of this treasure-collecting nonsense, that his love for her would be all the security she'd need, but he's always harbored qualms that if she stumbled across the mother lode of riches, she might choose it over him. Well, obviously, he'd been right that his devotion couldn't compare to the riches she'd long sought to acquire. Moreover, she wouldn't have been driven to such a step if he hadn't refused to help when she'd openly asked for his assistance in an honest effort to earn her gemstones by the sweat of her brow.

With all these details unspoken, he begged her to just tell the truth for once, rather than endanger everyone else by hanging onto what were undoubtedly the best of the gems from the Marobi treasure. He promised that whatever she gave up today, he'd help her replace it.

But the only result of his offer was the reproach in her silver-green eyes as she stared at him in stony silence. Defeated, he'd retreated from her presence.

Jacoba declared that they had no choice but to turn Marguerite over to the warriors. He decreed that it would be up to the Marobi to get the information they wanted about where Marguerite had hidden the remaining gems.

Marguerite was outraged that the others would even consider letting the vengeful warriors take her. "They'll torture me!" she protested when they came to the hut where she was being held prisoner and told her of the chief's judgment. "You can't let them take me. John?!" Her green eyes were stunned as she pled with him to shield her.

"Then tell us where the rest of the treasure is, and we'll work out a trade," Roxton urged, longing to protect her, and dreading what was to come. He already knew he couldn't permit anyone to turn his lady over to those savages to be 'questioned'. If she didn't confess, if the others tried to give her up to the Marobi, he would fight it, fight them all, and trigger the very war they were trying to avoid. "Tell us, Marguerite."

"I can't! I didn't do it! I don't know where it is!" she'd reiterated impatiently. "Oh, just get out, all of you!" Frustrated, she'd waved them all away.

Following Veronica and Ned, Challenger pulled John out the door.

He'd hesitated outside her door. "What if she's telling the truth?"

"Roxton," Challenger had said somberly, "Ordinarily I'd say circumstantial evidence is not enough to convict her. But there's no other logical explanation to fit the facts, and the only chance of keeping her alive and avoiding a costly conflict is to convince her to confess and return the remaining stolen gems. Let her have the night to sleep on it. She'll see things differently in the morning."

The other two had agreed; surely after a night's solitude, faced with being turned over to the Marobi, she would admit to truth to John Roxton, if to no one else, and allow herself to be convinced to tell where she had hidden the rest of the treasure.

But the next morning, in spite of the half dozen guards surrounding the hut, they found that Marguerite had managed to escape the Zanga compound. No one was quite sure how she did it, but there was no time to figure it out, for the Marobi were waiting beyond the gates, their war-painted and fully armed warriors all around the village.

When the Zanga could not produce the thief at the agreed upon time, the Marobi didn't hesitate. They simply began their brutally vicious attack.

Roxton had seen such merciless determination to kill before. Rice had exhibited it in Africa, when a village had refused to trade their cherished ivory idols and trinkets for the shiny knives and colorful silks he'd brought along as trade goods. The man, so convinced of his own superiority and what was due him at his whim, had coolly orchestrated the surrounding of that pitifully primitive village by his well-armed European party: The majority of the natives had been shot down, until the tribe gave up the fight and handed over their ivory carvings to prevent being eradicated to the last man, woman and child. William had outright refused to be part of such an action, had argued fiercely against it, much to John's initial embarrassment – until afterwards. It had taken only the first volley for the young hunter to realize that his brother was right. Rice's action against the virtually defenseless community had been morally reprehensible, unjustifiable before their responsibilities under both the laws of God and the prevailing colonial policy in the province. John had withdrawn before the echo of the first deadly volley had ceased. It had been the first step of his disillusionment with Rice.

Wandering around the world seeking peace after the death of his brother, John had witnessed similar instances of willful disregard of the preciousness of life. Shanghai Xhan's bravos had been a prime example, and no matter how often Roxton had stepped forward to defend the weak and to demand justice, there never seemed to be an end to it. Always at the root of such situations had been someone's determination to have what they wanted, no matter the cost to others. This was true even of the many atrocities committed by both Allied and Axis forces against their foes in the late Great War.

The Marobi might not have the military might of the so-called "civilized" nations, but the apparent commitment to wholesale slaughter was eerily familiar to former Major Lord John Roxton. Naturally the Zanga had to fight back for their lives and homes. Only after hours of prolonged battle and tremendous bloodshed did the Marobi heed Challenger's shouted demand for a temporary truce.

The Marobi leaders agreed to a ceasefire only because their own losses were nearly as high as the Zanga's, thanks to the superior weapons and marksmanship of the Zanga's European allies. After prolonged discussions, it was agreed that if Marguerite would simply give back the jewels, the Marobi would withdraw without exacting a further blood penalty. But if the treasure was not returned to its rightful owners in full by the setting of the third sun, the Marobi would wipe out the Zanga, no matter how many generations it took, for first sheltering the thief and then allowing her to escape.

Leaving the Zanga to tend their wounded and mourn their dead while they braced for another round of fighting, the battered, smoke and gun-powder begrimed tree house quartet set out, determined to find Marguerite and end this horror.

Since the battling warriors had wiped out any trail Marguerite might have left, the tree house companions headed straight back to the tree house to gather more ammunition and supplies before setting forth to try to trace their wayward friend. To their bemusement, the unfathomable Miss Krux was there! The electric fence was on at full power, and every gun the others hadn't taken with them to the village was loaded and carefully placed at key positions around the lofty structure. Lanterns were lit and strategically hung around the tree house to enable a defender to move around safely without exposing herself as dusk descended over the jungle. She had even set up torches inside the electric fence to light up the compound for surveillance from the balconies. She'd been fully prepared to fight off the Marobi, singlehanded.

Marguerite's beautiful green eyes filled with relief when it was her friends who emerged from the jungle underbrush and approached the compound, instead of vengeful warriors. But her gladness to see them quickly changed to concern at their physical exhaustion and beat-up appearance. And when they rode up the elevator only to tell her what had been agreed upon, she stared in incredulous disbelief. "No way! I keep telling you -"

"Come on, Marguerite," Veronica scowled, nostrils still filled with the stench of blood and death, "Do you really want to condemn Assai and her children and her children's children - if there are any - to lives of constant war just over a few jewels?!"

"No harm will come to you, I made certain," Challenger assured her, his blue eyes full of anguished confusion that she could be hesitating over this. He waved a gunpowder-stained hand in emphasis of his words. "You only have to tell us where the rest of the treasure is, and we'll go get it and take it back. You don't even have to leave the tree house," he attempted to reason with her, confident that these terms were more than fair. "There will be no retribution from either the Marobi or the Zanga."

"That's very generous of you," was her sarcastic retort. "But I don't know where the stupid things are! I didn't take them!"

Ned, his forehead bandaged and shirt ripped in several places that showed he'd had far too many close calls with arrows, snorted in derision. "Why do you keep lying about this? You were seen placing the jewels in that hiding place."

"He lied!" Marguerite glared at the younger man, warily keeping her distance across the room from her friends.

Roxton drew her attention by stepping forward, steadying himself against the pain in his ribs – courtesy of a hand-to-hand encounter with several powerful Marobi that had scaled the palisade – by leaning on his rifle as he glared at the woman he loved. "Why would he lie?" he asked, coldly reasonable as he challenged her continued refusal to confess the obvious and put an end to the danger to their native friends. At least when he'd caught her out at trading Veronica to Jacoba in those early days, she'd shown a hint of remorse at the way things had gone. He could only imagine the size and value of the Marobi temple stones she'd chosen to keep; they must be spectacular indeed!

"How should I know why he lied?!" she stomped her foot in aggravation. "What I do know is that I'm telling you the truth! You've known me for long enough to know I wouldn't jeopardize the Zanga like this! I didn't steal the bloody jewels, and I don't know where the rest of the treasure is! Why won't you believe me?"

George Challenger straightened up to his full height and grimly faced the dark-haired fiery-eyed beauty. "Marguerite, you have a known history of taking what you want by fair means or foul. The pilfered treasure is exactly the type of wealth you have been amassing. You cannot give a plausible explanation of your whereabouts during the time the temple was violated. You were seen placing something into the hollow tree outside the Zanga village, by a witness who has no personal grudge against you and no reason to give false testimony. A portion of the treasure was found in that same hollow tree. You arrived at the Zanga village shortly before the Marobi, who followed the trail of the thief directly from their temple. Admittedly, this is all circumstantial, but it is a damning amount of evidence against you and there isn't an iota of evidence that indicates any other perpetrator."

His jaw tightened. "We have just come from wheedling a truce between two tribes who will annihilate one another if this is not resolved. There have already been an unacceptable number of lives lost in both tribes, along with formidable damage to the homes and livelihood of the Zanga. This was an entirely preventable debacle! Either you admit your culpability and tell us where to find the rest of that treasure, or I will expel you from the Challenger Expedition forthwith!" His concluding statement stunned his housemates, but Marguerite most of all. As he later explained to the others, his intention had been to compel her to capitulate via the threat of excommunication, forcing her to realize the immeasurable value of family compared to mere stones.

Well, she'd understood that, no question. She'd paled, flinched and fallen back a half step. "George!"

"No, I mean it!" Regardless of his battle-tattered appearance, he was every inch the authoritative patriarch as he sternly addressed her. "I can't allow you to remain a member of this expedition if you refuse to act responsibly! Make your decision now, Miss Krux."

"But I didn't do it!"

He blinked owlishly, silent for a long moment while the others looked back and forth between the two of them. There was nothing to do but stand behind his threat and prove that he, at least, was not bluffing. With a grimace, he deliberately turned so that he was standing with his back to her, folding his arms across his chest.

"George -" Roxton began, feeling that this was going too far… And besides, he had the deepest relationship with her, and if his love wasn't enough for her, he doubted this threat would be effective. By issuing such an ultimatum, George was forcing her into a corner, and she never reacted well to that.

"No, Roxton, this is the only way to show her how serious this is," the red-headed leader of their group insisted flatly without turning his head toward the younger man. "If she refuses to be reasonable, she must accept the consequences."

After a long silent moment, John's broad shoulders slumped. Challenger was right, no matter how badly Marguerite might respond. Too many lives depended on this. War had to be avoided. She had to take responsibility for her actions, even if she only admitted the truth because they'd forced her into doing so. Roxton could do no less than stand with the others on this, just as he'd eventually stood firmly against Rice, against Xhan's bravos, and against Kaiser Wilhelm's threat to the world's citizens.

Seeing that Roxton was accepting George's edict had wiped out what little color Marguerite had left in her panicked face. She spun toward the girl who was like her sister. "Veronica! I wouldn't -"

Veronica shook her head, disgust and pain at what they had to do plain to see in her clear blue eyes. There was no arguing with the reasoning Challenger had presented, even faced with Marguerite's apparent sincerity. She couldn't let her housemate get away with this, not when so many innocents would have to pay for it with their lives. "That treasure must be quite something for you to be willing to pay for it with the blood of generations of the Zanga, Marguerite," she ground out bitterly.

"I'm not! I didn't do it!" Marguerite wailed, her green eyes filling with tears she wouldn't release despite her growing despair.

Supporting Challenger's authority and following his example, Veronica resolutely turned away, appalled and chilled that the brunette's heartlessness was necessitating this harsh remedy.

After staring blankly at the pair for a silent moment, the heiress turned her eyes to Ned in appeal.

He shook his head, lips tight with disapproval. "Don't look at me, Marguerite! How can we believe you?" he demanded. "How often have you lied to us in the past? How can you place so little value on the lives of so many people?! There's just no excuse for this. Challenger is right. If you don't confess, you're on your own." And when she could only shake her head, he, too, turned his back to her.

Slowly, she turned to John, and the devastated expression on her face was nearly his undoing. "You promised you would never leave me, never let me go," she whispered, trembling, shocked by what was happening. "You said you would always stand by me! Why won't you believe me?"

Knowing that the only way to save the Zanga was to take a hard line, he gritted his teeth and answered quietly, hoarsely, "I also promised to keep you on the straight path. You have to be held accountable, Marguerite. Don't try to use my promises against me. If you love me, tell the truth and we can make it right. If you're not willing to tell the truth, you… you leave us no choice."

"I _am_ telling you the truth!" she cried, reaching out to him with both hands. "I've changed! You know I've changed! And it's all of you who made the difference in my life! _Please_, John! I'm telling you the truth! I wasn't anywhere near that temple, and it's that Zanga hunter who's lying, not me! I swear it!"

He stiffened, hardening himself against her bewitching charm and now-streaming tears. "As George said, there's no reason for him to lie, Marguerite, and you're not swearing on your own life," he choked out the words, each one like a searing stab to his own heart. "You're swearing on the lives of innocent people, Marguerite. Too many have already been lost. We can't risk losing any more." And he, too, turned his back to her.

Marguerite had stood still for a long moment.

They'd each believed that she would tell them the truth at last. There was absolutely no doubt in any of their minds that she loved John, and cared deeply for each of them, too. They knew how long she had searched for a place to belong, people she could trust, people who would love her. She wouldn't choose mere jewels over them, would she? Just how much was the temple treasure worth that she hadn't already grudgingly given up, as she had when caught lying in the past?

When they heard the elevator, they were shocked into momentary immobility before they spun to stare at the empty space where the elevator basket should have been.

She'd gone?!

They had been so sure! They'd blamed Marguerite's greed for the loss of Zanga lives. But they'd also believed that the treasure would lose whatever allure it had for her, once she was faced with the loss of her family and home. They'd never expected her to really walk away from them – at least, no one but Roxton had expected it.

Stunned by her departure, they staggered to chairs, unable to meet one another's eyes while they tried to reassure themselves and each other that she would be back.

It was Malone who'd quickly hazarded, "Maybe we finally got through to her and she's gone to get the jewels. We all know she's got caches of treasure all over the place, including down in the compound. She had plenty of time to set up defenses here; she could easily have had time to stash the gems, too, before we came home."

The others had accepted the journalist's reasoning with relief, but Roxton hadn't. They had no way of knowing what he knew, what he'd known from the start, that neither he nor they were enough for Marguerite.

"She won't go far," Veronica agreed, foot worriedly tapping on the unpolished wood floor despite her firm words even as she noticed that Marguerite's pack and rifle were still by the lift doorway. "She knows the Marobi will be looking for her, and she didn't take her weapons or any supplies."

Roxton kept silent and let them talk, shattered at his failure to wholly win her heart.

She wouldn't be gone long, they said. They'd prove their belief that she would do the right thing by waiting right here – not that she would see it that way when they'd had to issue such a chilling ultimatum to force her into doing the right thing in the first place. She'd probably be like a wounded tiger to live with for a few weeks, in sheer resentment that their insistence had cost her the gems she wanted. They could live with that, right? They'd weathered her wrath for similar reasons before, and, knowing Marguerite, probably would again.

The minutes dragged by, and the elevator's counterweight system remained silent, immobile.

Veronica set about making dinner while Ned collected the lanterns, refilled the depleted fuel and trimmed the wicks for their next use. Challenger descended to his lab to check the status of the experiments he'd left the morning before when they'd answered Jarl's drummed message.

Roxton was the only one who hadn't moved at all, frozen in place staring at the empty doorway of the lift and fighting his inward panic, silently reviewing all the facts over and over again, searching for some answer other than Marguerite's guilt, something, anything, that would prove she hadn't chosen such a selfish motivation over the lives of an entire tribe. He merely shook his head when Veronica called the men to eat, refusing to leave his self-appointed post watching the elevator for her return.

The others gradually hushed that night as they finished eating and Marguerite had still not returned. Once the evening's chores were completed they re-gathered, increasingly concerned by her absence.

Pacing restlessly back and forth across the great room, Veronica had finally broken the silence with the uneasy suggestion that maybe Marguerite wasn't out retrieving the missing gems. Maybe she was posturing, expecting them to follow her and call her back. Maybe she was trying to frighten them into thinking she'd prefer to leave rather than give up the jewels, so they would retreat from the hard line they'd taken. If so, she'd be in the compound below, or somewhere nearby where they could find her. She wouldn't have gone far… after all, the sun had been down for a couple hours now… and she hadn't taken anything with her, not even her pistol.

Could she be expecting them to chase her, to beg her to come back?

Roxton listened mutely while the other three debated whether the former triple-agent might be trying to manipulate them. Given her history, it was possible – even _probable_, according to Challenger's quick calculations– for her to employ such a tactic. They couldn't give in. They had to show her they were serious about her taking responsibility for her actions. She would have to give in. There were no jewels in existence that were worth more than her dislike of being alone. Moreover, Marguerite couldn't survive out there alone, with neither supplies nor friends. She'd come back of her own accord once she realized they weren't coming after her – or when the Marobi started tracking her.

Still the elevator remained idle.

Dawn came: the slender, strong-willed heiress did not.

By then they each knew that Marguerite would not be returning with the jewels and one of her outrageously implausible denials or reluctant confessions. The others avoided voicing this conclusion through the long night of waiting, for Roxton's sake, until daybreak made it impossible to put off any longer. Then there had been no choice but to discuss the possibility that she wasn't coming back, that she hadn't needed to take anything with her when she left because the treasure she'd hidden was enough to keep her in style anywhere on the plateau.

John fidgeted through the debate about whether Marguerite would really leave them if the jewels were rich enough, whether she would exchange their relationships with her for the financial security and independence she had always wanted. Would it be necessary for them to track her down, to physically force her to return what she'd taken?

In spite of their desire to believe otherwise, their knowledge of her past had made them each secretly doubt whether she really would value her life with them more than she might value a big enough treasure. Only at this stage did they finally voice their uncertainty, surprising one another that they'd each harbored this fear without talking about it until now… all except Roxton. He alone said nothing at all.

Then, before the sun had fully arisen, Assai and a dozen Zanga warriors had arrived. They'd risked travel through the night with news too complex to trust to the drums.

The threat of war had ended. The rest of the Marobi's sacred temple treasure had been found.

The Zanga hunter who had testified against Marguerite had been caught trying to sneak away from the besieged Zanga village, and he'd had the remaining jewels in his possession.

Until they caught him in the act of creeping off, no one had doubted his word about having seen Marguerite stash those jewels in the hollow tree. Of course Roxton had questioned him, wanting to hear the testimony for himself when they'd first heard the tale at the Zanga compound. But he'd accepted the man's description of what he'd seen. He had traveled in the same hunting party with the man numerous times over the years, they'd fought side-by-side a few times, and never had Tahumai given him a reason to doubt their mutual respect and honor. While Marguerite's quest for wealth was common knowledge and there'd been valid cause to suspect the woman known to be a former thief, there's been absolutely no reason for the native hunter to make up such a story – or so they'd assumed at the time.

Now Marguerite's housemates listened in growing dismay and alarm as Assai explained why, when the Zanga didn't even value precious gems as anything more than pretty baubles, Tahumai had desecrated the other tribe's temple and then accused Marguerite: He'd met and fallen in love with a woman from a village by the inland sea, a woman whose people _did _value the shiny stones, and required that a bride price be paid in the silly things. He needed a lot of them in order to win his chosen bride, more than any single Zanga possessed, so many, in fact, that it would have taken him an unacceptable amount of time to barter enough to satisfy his intended's people. So he'd settled on a faster, easier method of gathering the necessary number of stones to gain his bride.

He'd visited the Marobi people on trading jaunts, and had seen the treasure in their temple. There were hundreds of the shiny stones, conveniently together in one place. It had been a simple matter for such a skilled hunter to sneak in and take them.

Tahumai regretted the deaths and injuries to his fellow Zanga. But, Assai had grimly reported, he did not blame himself: it was clearly all the Marobi's fault. Any reasonable person would have expected the warriors to simply take the gems they'd found in the tree - the lesser ones he had so cleverly used to frame Marguerite - and maybe take Marguerite as well - and go home.

Blaming Marguerite had been as expedient as taking the gems. Everyone knew of her fascination with the silly colored stones, and when he'd seen her entering the village ahead of him, he'd considered her presence to be providential. Even though she hadn't been caught doing anything questionable lately, and probably hadn't even known about the temple, she was always up to something. He was certain she must deserve to be punished for something, or why would the gods have sent her there at that very moment? Who could have guessed that the other tribe wouldn't accept their recovered stones and the supposed culprit and go home, but would actually go to war over the few missing shiny stones?!

As Assai unfolded the true story to them, the tree house occupants had been shocked and increasingly frightened, genuinely fearful for the first time since Marguerite had gone the night before.

She hadn't taken a thing with her. Not her jewelry, her clothes, her gun, her hat, her hidden stashes of gems, her whip, her rifle - nothing but the knife that she always carried in her boot as a souvenir of defeating Avery Burton, and that was probably only because she'd forgotten she had it.

Now they saw that these things hadn't been left behind because she wouldn't need any of it once she collected the rest of the treasure. Instead, they realized that Marguerite had been so devastated by their lack of belief in her that she simply hadn't thought about what she might need to survive out there without her friends. It was a clear testimony to how deeply wounded she'd been.

She'd simply gone into the night, into the jungle, alone, unarmed, stripped of her instinct for self-preservation by the betrayal of her family… by the betrayal of the man she loved and trusted.

Roxton had been beside himself with remorse and anxiety. His lady hadn't chosen riches over his love, she hadn't found him to be insufficient! It had been his own fears, his own faults that kept him from believing in her innocence. If he'd only spoken up for her as she deserved, he might have swayed the others, too, but he'd been so bogged down in his belief that she didn't love him as much as he loved her that he'd failed her when she needed him most!

They'd searched, of course, but her trail was decidedly erratic and purposeless, and a thunderstorm that afternoon wiped out her trail before there was any clear direction they could discern. If the truth had been known even a couple hours earlier, they might have been able to figure out where she was headed, find her and bring her home. But once the rain erased her tracks there was little hope of seeing which direction she'd eventually held to when she left the tree house behind.

The Zanga had helped in the search for Marguerite, but it had been a fruitless effort even with the aid of sixty expert hunters fanning out in all directions.

So many ways to disappear on the plateau, to die without a trace…

Eventually, the Zanga had to get back to the necessities of survival, trade, hunting, life . . . So did the members of the tree house family. But none of tree house dwellers had ever actually stopped hoping to find some sign of her, somewhere. They'd kept on looking, whatever they were doing, wherever the quest for day-to-day survival took them.

Lord John Roxton most of all.

He should have stood with her, even when the others turned their backs.

He'd abandoned the woman he loved with all his heart, given up on her without just cause, betrayed the woman he'd vowed he would give his last breath for. He'd broken his promises to her, and she was gone. The fact that she wasn't safe at home with him was his fault.

He should have believed her.

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~


	5. Chapter 5 - Lessons Learned

**Chapter 5 Lessons Learned**

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

**Author's Note: To those who took time to review – thank you so much! I appreciate your feedback and comments. I'm also chuffed about the readers who chose to "follow" or "favorite" this story. I'm very glad you're liking "Not a Game".**

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

Roxton cursed under his breath, pulling his thoughts away from those dark, despairing days. After nine hellish months of fearing the worst, dreading the discovery of evidence of her death every time he stepped away from the tree house, night after night of sleepless or nightmare-filled darkness that had threatened to overwhelm him on a daily basis – all of that had ended now that he knew Marguerite was alive and well – _but only if I haven't lost her again._ _What was I thinking?!_

_I can't lose her again! I won't! Not this time!_ Heartsick at not seizing the moment when it had been available, he began to search the jungle perimeter around the village again. _She was here. She set up this little delay, had those bloody natives hold me in their village overnight, but there hasn't been any rain this time. I'll locate her tracks, and when I find her I'll let her know how much I need her, how much I love her – how much I regret having hurt her!_

_No more bloody time-wasting games instead of making sure Marguerite comes home! I have to make this right – I_ will _make this right! I have to find her!_

And once he had his lady back, he vowed to himself, never again would he allow the poison of doubt to come between them.

He was nearly back where he'd begun, standing over her tracks of the day before that aimed directly toward the palisade gates. There had been no sign of her trail leading away from the village. How could that be?

He checked again, circling around the village perimeter more carefully, all too aware that he was losing more precious time.

Still no sign of where she'd left the village.

He searched further out from the village, in an ever-widening circle, over the open fields and into the jungle, but couldn't find her trail. Over and over he retraced his steps, double-checking and triple-checking to make sure he hadn't missed something. Two days, a week… His ever-widening circles moved so far into the jungle that he couldn't see or hear the village itself any more.

There were a handful of natives that kept a curious watch on him, grinning and chattering to one another in their sing-song tongue, wandering along behind him. They made him nervous at first, but they were completely non-threatening, seeming immeasurably amused at his activity. They probably thought he was a mad man, he thought ruefully more than once, searching the ground over and over as he was doing. Twice they brought him more provisions, giving generously and gladly.

Finally, ten long days after he'd first followed her tracks to the village, he had to admit defeat. She had vanished again!

There was only one other chance now, one way to pick up her trail. He'd tried to communicate with the chummy natives, asking them about Marguerite, showing them the bark message, drawing stick figures in the dirt, gesturing every way he could think of, to get them to show him which direction the elusive beauty had gone when she left the village. They watched him and smiled as they chattered back at him in their melodic tones, but they offered no direction for him to follow.

If he could bring Veronica back here, maybe she could talk to them and find out which way Marguerite had gone when she left. It was a three-day journey home from here. He would see if he could make it in two. That would put him back here with the others by the end of another week. He had wasted too much time already.

Grimly he set out across the jungle toward the other side of the plateau.

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

He succeeded in his goal of bringing the others back by the end of the week, although George was ready to collapse by the time he staggered from the jungle into the fields around the palisade gates behind his younger companions.

Their approach to the peaceful village was heralded with shouts of joy by the men working the fields; they welcomed Roxton and the newcomers with laughter, warm embraces, and friendly back slapping – although in Veronica's case the native men's reaction was raised brows and bemusement. She was accustomed to varied reactions to her appearance, but this seemed unusual. Ned noticed it too, and stepped between the voluptuous blonde and the feather-clothed men. The reporter's defensive action caught Roxton's attention.

The hunter noted the gestures and the focus of the men's gaze, recalled the lack of garments on the feminine inhabitants of the village, and smiled briefly. "They think you're overdressed, Veronica."

"Huh?" Ned blinked.

"Didn't I mention it? Their women aren't clothed."

Veronica snorted. "No, you didn't mention that little detail. Wonder what they made of Marguerite when she first arrived?"

"Well, at least she could understand them and reply," Ned pointed out, suppressing a grin now that he understood. "Does anything they're saying sound familiar to you, Veronica?"

The blonde signed and reluctantly admitted, "No, it doesn't sound like any of the languages I'm familiar with."

Challenger, who'd been standing bent over, bracing his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, straightened up. "Don't give up yet. One or more of the villagers may be conversant in other plateau languages and you may find someone with whom you can communicate, particularly among the hunters or traders."

Hope renewed by this timely reminder, they allowed the men to escort them into their palisade. As with Roxton's previous experience, the visitors were surrounded by the cheerful villagers and welcomed warmly. Much fuss was made over the fair beauty and her animal-skin clothing, which made Veronica edgy. But no one seemed inclined to demand that she disrobe. They were simply fascinated with her attire, so she resigned herself to their scrutiny. Besides, Ned was bristling enough for both of them, and the villagers clearly got the message, not venturing any closer to her whenever her self-appointed protector tensed up. Veronica resisted the urge to giggle and concentrated on finding someone who could speak with her.

The village women and children brought food and water, and a couple of the men led George to a hut to rest while Veronica and the younger men searched for a way to communicate with the tribe. It was a frustrating procedure; everyone was willing to listen to her, and to prattle back at her, but never in one of the plateau languages Veronica was using at the time, only in their own.

Meanwhile, a hearty feast was prepared. Once Challenger emerged from the guest hut, the chief called everyone together to enjoy the meal. George added his attempts at communicating to the efforts of the others, but they were continually interrupted as the entertainment and speechmaking proceeded. When the native families filtered away to their own blankets to go to sleep long after darkness had fallen, the explorers found themselves with no choice but to retire to the guest hut. Other than several pallets being added for the additional visitors, everything was the same as during Roxton's stay, including the talkative native guards who remained outside the door throughout the night.

Sleep came slowly to the four companions, even the still-exhausted scientist. Their disappointment was palpable, and they couldn't bear to discuss the fact that their efforts had yielded nothing. They lay silently on the pallets and stared into the darkness, each lost in memories and regrets, and wondering if they'd ever be able to find Marguerite again.

But late the next morning they finally found a returning hunter who spoke another plateau dialect Veronica knew, and she was able to ask questions about Marguerite, which he relayed in turn to the interested chief. Roxton, Challenger, and Ned waited as patiently as they could. Tribal members gathered around to watch as the tall, bronze-skinned, feather-clad chief squatted down to talk via their interpreter with the strangely-clad blonde-haired, fair-skinned woman. There were a lot of wide smiles and guffaws from the observers while the newly-arrived hunter translated the chief's answers to Veronica. The men saw a look of incredulous disbelief on her lovely face while she sharply asked more questions. The intermediary's translations produced more laughter and many amused looks in Roxton's direction. Veronica rubbed her forehead, more and more bemused as she listened to the translated responses from the amiable native and studied the reactions of the tribe.

"What did he say?" the anxious aristocrat demanded when Veronica finally turned away from the chief. He was very aware of the intent, expectant gaze of the villagers surrounding them, and frowned at Veronica's uncertain expression. "What?"

"John, you're not going to believe this."

"Will you just tell me already?" he growled in frustration.

She took a deep breath. "Marguerite never left the village."

He stared at her blankly and gasped, "What?!"

"She came in and asked them to help her play a practical joke on an old friend. From what I can gather she'd been here once before, a few months ago, and she knew that for these people pulling off a practical joke is the equivalent of winning contests, taking prizes, or whatever. They were more than glad to agree to help her. So they welcomed you, fed you, gave you a chance to rest, provided supplies, passed on Marguerite's message to you, and sent you on your way."

"Yes, yes, I know all that!" he scowled, still bewildered about what had happened, much to the tittering amusement of their audience.

"Remember how you told us she must have been tired from the effort to stay ahead of you?" the jungle-born blonde reminded him. She swallowed and worked to steady her voice, concerned about how he was going to respond. "Well, she was worn out, alright. She stayed here in the village the same night you did, sleeping in the hut next door to yours. And all the while you were circling the village looking for her tracks after you left here the next day, she lived here, in that same hut, the whole ten days. You couldn't find any trace of her, John, because she hadn't left. She was still in the village. And every man, woman, and child here knew it." Although she knew she should be appalled, Veronica couldn't help also being amused.

Only Marguerite could have duped John so completely! Even a novice tracker should have suspected the truth about this. No tracks, no movement. Of course, knowing Johns' expertise, that hadn't occurred to her either when John was telling them about losing Marguerite's trail here. And even if she'd been here, if she'd been in an emotional fog like John probably had been – goodness! Still was! – maybe she'd have missed the obvious, too. Marguerite had definitely tricked him, but good!But although Veronica could see the funny side of this, her sympathies were with her frazzled friend. Would he be able to see any humor in Marguerite's maneuver, or would the realization of his mistake and the lost opportunity overwhelm him?

As realization dawned, and chagrin filled Lord Roxton's expressive face, the villagers howled with hilarity, delighted at the success of their practical joke.

Ned and Challenger's eyes widened as the truth sunk in. Like Veronica, they held their breath and stared at their companion's flabbergasted visage, waiting to see whether the hunter would lose his temper at Marguerite's manipulation, or be devastated by his own culpability in not catching on.

Torn between outrage at her base exploitation of his emotions and admiration of the coup she'd set up, it was being surrounded by the merriment of the natives that tipped the balance toward responding to the lighter side. Roxton finally grinned, albeit sheepishly. There was no denying that there was sufficient reason for her co-conspirators' delighted reactions to Marguerite's prank.

She'd used his guilt against him to muddle his thinking. It was so obvious, looking back: the surest way to leave no tracks was not to move at all. If tracks stopped, it meant the prey had stopped. It was a simple fact, but he hadn't been thinking clearly or logically, thanks to his lady's carefully worded note.

"Okay, she's good." John shook his head in reluctant acknowledgement that he had been well and truly snookered this time.

Assured that her fellow-hunter wasn't going to break down, Veronica explained the rest of the tale, grinning ruefully. Marguerite had rested safely inside the village while John fruitlessly searched for her non-existent trail. And when his conscience had prompted him to return to the tree house at last, to reassure the others of his safety and to request their help, the chief had thrown a celebratory feast for the instigator of the wonderful hoax.

The whole tribe had been thrilled with the chance to take part in the devious practical joke of having Roxton search all over for a woman who was right in the village all along. And then, a day after the hunter's departure, Marguerite had also left the village – well-fed, well-rested, well-supplied, and secure in the knowledge that Lord John Roxton wouldn't be back on her trail for at least a week.

Ned, making mental notes as he observed the celebratory behavior of their hosts, said wryly, "After counting coup on Roxton as they have, so to speak, there's no way they're going to tell us which way she went, is there?"

"No," Veronica agreed, "Not that it would matter, because she probably changed direction several more times, and the trail is gone cold. Now that she's completely rested and she's had time to plan, I doubt that we'll find anything."

As she expected, Lord Roxton wasn't happy about this assessment. But after the two hunters had each circled the village without discovering a trace that might hint at the direction she'd taken, even by widening the loop half a dozen times, he had to concede that she was right. Veronica had John sketch out a diagram of his pursuit of Marguerite up to this point, hoping against hope that it would give them some indication of which direction the woman might have intended to go from here. But Marguerite had led John every which way during their chase. There was no pattern to indicate which bearing might actually lead to her home.

With nothing to be gained by remaining in the village, or in searching in this locality for any further sign of Marguerite, even Roxton admitted that she'd covered her trail too well to pick up again for now. Leaving the still-chortling villagers behind, the four explorers headed back toward the tree house – much more slowly than they'd come, to Challenger's relief.

Challenger took point, although he was almost on autopilot as he navigated in the direction of their home. He'd been mulling over Roxton's tale about the time he'd spent following Marguerite, and although the lad bitterly blamed himself for not simply approaching her at the first possible chance, the way she'd responded was worth considering. Human nature wasn't the scientist's strong suit – just witness the way he'd allowed his judgment of Marguerite's guilt to form based on unsubstantiated circumstances instead of following solid scientific principle! – and yet he couldn't help but regard her recent behavior as being significantly promising. There was a plethora of new detail to evaluate, though, before he could verbalize his hypothesis.

Veronica clung to Ned's hand, remembering how eagerly they'd crossed the jungle in the last few days, how she'd anticipated that when she returned to her home, her best friend would be at her side again. She'd never expected to find that Marguerite had carried out such a cunning deception; it was so… so very like her. She could easily imagine the smirk on her face as she left Lord Roxton in the dust. Still, as reassuring as it was to know the brunette was in fine mettle, Veronica had hoped to see her, to talk to her… to finally apologize properly for the way she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion yet again. Marguerite deserved so much better than that, after all they'd been through together. Veronica had been so sure she'd finally have a chance to make it up to her. They weren't supposed to be going home without her this time. She blinked back tears, stumbled on the uneven ground, and would have fallen if not for Ned's attentiveness.

Ned slipped an arm about her slender waist to ensure that he could support her. He gave her a sympathetic smile, knowing that her thoughts were as remorseful as his own. They'd been over it all so many times, each of them questioning and grieving over his own contribution to their betrayal of Marguerite. He was a journalist; why hadn't he asked more questions? He knew better than to accept uncorroborated sources. He'd never reconciled, in his own mind, a reason for their acceptance of the Zanga native's tale over the word of their housemate. Challenger had postulated that it was a combination of "Marguerite's history, our own insecurity about our places in her affections, the preponderance of circumstantial evidence against her, the unfortunate lack of substantive evidence to back up her story, and the pressure of the Marobi warriors' threatening presence." The scientist said the debacle at the tree house that day had been "exacerbated by battle fatigue and stress." Veronica said they still should have stood by her. Roxton always agreed… His agreement that they should have stood by her was almost always his only contribution to such discussions.

Ned glanced discreetly back at the hunter where he was bringing up the rear of their column. As he'd feared, the hunter's guilt and despair grew with every step further away from the village, his broad shoulders slumping, head bowing under the burden of losing his lady. He trudged along through the verdant jungle without looking up, and Ned doubted that Roxton was noticing anything around him.

After half a day of increasingly heavy silence as they hiked along, the tender-hearted American finally spoke up, hoping to encourage not only the heartsick nobleman, but also his other two companions. "I'd say her instinct for self-preservation is back in full force. That's a pretty resourceful move she made on you, Roxton." The grin he cast over his shoulder was brief as he tried to keep his tone light, for John's sake. Although the other man looked up, it was the scientist who responded from several feet ahead of the young couple.

"Yes, her instincts are completely intact and she is protecting herself with her usual efficiency. In addition, I believe it's encouraging to note that while she's avoiding us, she doesn't seem to harbor any need for revenge. There can be no doubt that we've hurt her, or that she doesn't want us near her yet, but I am increasingly convinced that the damage isn't irreversible."

"What do you mean, George?" Veronica asked, perking up at the hint of hope he offered. She noticed that Ned's head came up sharply, too, and she heard Roxton's footsteps falter as his attention was engaged.

"Well, I've been pondering this ever since you and Ned came home and told me you thought she had seen you but that she chose not to engage in conversation. I'd nearly given up on locating any sign of her at all, yet we now have irrefutable proof that she's not only survived but continues to care for us."

"What makes you say that, when she went to such extremes to avoid me?" John asked gruffly as he took several longer steps to bring him closer to the others.

"Simple logic, of course," Challenger stopped walking and turned to face them, his ginger brows raised in startled surprise that his friend could miss such an obvious point. He leaned on his rifle as he elaborated. "The old Marguerite would have attempted to retaliate against people who betrayed her as we did. Yet she's alive and well, and she hasn't undertaken a single action to make us pay for what we did." The scientist held up a hand to silence Roxton's immediate objection and added with a smile tugging at his lips. "I said the _old_ Marguerite, old boy. You know how brilliant she can be; she's had plenty of time to execute a plot that could have embroiled us in all sorts of dangers. But rather than acting vindictively, she simply chose to separate herself from us. She truly has changed, precisely as she tried to point out to us that terrible day. Take her belongings, for instance."

The other three listened attentively, curiously, drawing nearer.

"We never spoke it aloud, but I've no doubt that each of you thought, as I did when Assai informed us that Marguerite really was innocent all along, that the fact she never returned for any of her belongings was a very strong indication that she was dead." George said it bluntly, but with an apologetic look at Roxton since he knew how the younger man had been haunted by the possible manner of Marguerite's death.

The nobleman winced, but otherwise kept his face as impassive as he could. His nightmares had been filled with incredibly devastating visions of his beloved's imminent death. He was never able to reach her in time to save her, and she'd always died alone in these horridly vivid depictions of her demise. Worst of all, his subconscious had never allowed him the chance to reassure her that he'd never stopped loving her, so she always died believing she was unloved and alone. During the day he could keep himself busy enough to stifle such thoughts, but at night… The stoic nobleman had never mentioned how he'd come to dread closing his eyes at night, and he'd taken great care not to permit his restlessness to waken his housemates. Apparently, at least one person had noticed anyway.

Challenger continued in his best rallying tone. "But now we know she's alive and making do without all the things she always told us were essential for her life and happiness. That means that despite the way she's continued to fuss about how vital it is for her to possess jewels, silks, and various similar comforts in order to ensure her happiness and security – sometimes _ad nauseum_ these last few years," he inserted with wry humor, pleased when his comment elicited chuckles from the blonde couple and even a slight sardonic curving of John's lips. "If she really believed that such things were indispensable for her well-being, then a woman as resourceful as our Marguerite could have returned at any point in time to regain possession of her goods, either by stealth or via some scheme to ascertain that the truth was brought to light. That fact that she did not seek to do so is evidence that at some point Marguerite re-evaluated her needs. Moreover, if she was as near as you think she was on that first morning, she must have heard your apologies and invitations to return to the tree house. The fact that she did not avail herself of such an opportunity to retrieve her belongings is yet also verification that she has reassessed what she holds dear."

Veronica nodded slowly. "So since she didn't come back for any of her things, not even her caches of gemstones," which she knew because she'd kept careful watch over each location where Marguerite had secreted her treasures, "What does she value now?"

Ned, who had avidly followed the professor's dialogue and was already thinking ahead, promptly answered, "Us, of course. Marguerite values us."

Roxton snorted. "Right! That's why she ran from us! That's why she hasn't come back in nine and a half months – including since we apologized to her!" _And I wasted my chance to talk to her, to beg her forgiveness, perhaps my last opportunity to bring her home, by playing a child's game!_

The scientist settled a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulder. "She's always been skittish of being too close to us, John," he reminded his friend. "I'm sure she's been hurt in the past, just as we hurt her during this situation. She merely reacted in this instance by avoiding the cause of the pain – namely, us. But maintaining that distance doesn't mean she doesn't still care. I believe it indicates she still cares more than she's comfortable admitting even to herself."

"I think Challenger has the right idea," Ned agreed thoughtfully, his analytical journalist's mind already following a line of thought sparked by Challenger's reasoning. "You know how she was always saying the rest of us were too gullible, too trusting of appearances? I asked her once why she insisted on being such a pessimist. She said it was her fate to be betrayed or endangered by everyone who befriended her, leaving her with no choice but to endanger or betray others to save herself. She said it was safer to be prepared for the worst than to end up being ambushed at every turn."

"She's said something similar to me," Veronica agreed thoughtfully.

"Me, too," Lord Roxton sadly admitted.

George acknowledged that he, too, knew of Marguerite's defensive philosophy. "It's my belief," he added, "that this is yet more evidence to prove our hypothesis. The fact is that instead of maintaining a remote emotional distance as was her habit in the beginning of our journey together, she has revealed a little of herself to each of us over the last few years, attempting to build bridges of communication between her world and ours. Unfortunately, I fear that her caution about exposing herself resulted in efforts of such subtlety that only now, with the clarity of hindsight, can we perceive her intent – with the possible exception of John, here, of course." He glanced back at the quiet hunter for affirmation.

Roxton nodded grimly. He'd always been the one most likely to notice and understand the nuances of Marguerite's behavior and conversation, and to interpret them to the others when necessary. But since her disappearance they had discussed her often enough that he was sure any of the others could have recited both of the concepts he now verbalized. "She worried that if she allowed us to know too much about her, or to become too deeply involved in her life, it would endanger not only her, but us. She also held herself aloof from us because she thought that if we knew too much about her, we would reject her because of who she'd been and what she'd done."

"Our betrayal only served to confirm her fears," Challenger frowned. "Still, the fact that each of us has been deemed worthy of being privy to her confidences is a third affirmation of my theory that Marguerite's entire philosophical outlook has evolved." At their blank looks, he reviewed the other two items on his list, beaming excitedly: "First, she made no attempt to reclaim her belongings, proving that she no longer places the same value on material possessions. Second, where four years ago she would have retaliated for any action that harmed her, she's had more than nine months in which to develop and execute a plan to exact retribution for our shunning of her, but has not done so. Each of these independently is a quite promising indication that she genuinely cares for us; taken all together with the development of genuine relationships with each of us, it's irrefutable evidence that Marguerite is a changed woman. In summary, our life on the plateau has exposed her to new influences, and in response to the friendship and love she's experienced here, she has been adapting to become a member of our little community." He glanced from one to the other of them, expectantly.

When the others nodded their agreement, the scientist continued with his analysis. "The difficulty lies in the fact that our methods of interaction are still new to her, relatively speaking. Marguerite has limited familiarity with the appropriate positive responses in our current predicament. I don't believe such affirmative social qualities would have been propounded or valued in her former lifestyle, which makes it highly unlikely that the concept of restoration or its necessary components would occur to her without guidance. If I could only talk with her, point out the salient steps…" His voice trailed off, his brow furrowed deeply in thought.

Veronica and Ned exchanged slightly puzzled looks. "Are you talking about forgiveness?" Ned hazarded.

The scientist shrugged one shoulder and answered almost absently, "Yes, of course; reconciliation rather than retaliation is not a process encompassed in what we know of Marguerite's prior life…" He gazed off into the distance as he considered the quandary.

Grim-faced, John abruptly shouldered by the others on the trail with a quick spurt of movement that placed him at the head of their column; he resumed the march toward the treehouse. This placed him where the others couldn't watch his face as he stalked forward, tight-lipped, brow deeply creased while he bitterly mulled over the truth of George's conclusions.

_George might have limited knowledge of Marguerite's past, but he's hit the nail on the head about the conditions of her life back then_. _It's more likely that someone would've been knifed in the back for either a real or imagined fault than that an offense would be overlooked._ From the tidbits she'd gradually offered him as she grew to trust him, exoneration of any kind hadn't been an option in the cutthroat and merciless world she'd known for so long. Even if something was confirmed to be a misjudgment, only a fool would pardon the disloyalty of his companions when such an act might mean death the next time. Hers had been a harsh and unyielding life where second chances were unheard of, and compassion and love were weaknesses to be avoided at all costs.

She'd come so far in the last few years that he tended to forget how guarded and untrusting she'd been when they'd first met, or how limited her exposure to "family" was compared with how long she'd lived without true friends or family._ After the way we abandoned her, it's perfectly logical for her to revert to what she knew before, to the mindset that enabled her to survive all those years alone. Why would she ever trust us again – especially me? And my treating our chase as a game probably didn't help. What an idiot I was! I should have remembered that hunting was never a voluntary game for Marguerite, but always a matter of life and death!_

After a startled moment, the other three fell into place behind him, hurrying to catch up. Veronica cast an uneasy look toward Roxton's stiff-backed position and kept her voice down as she asked the other men, "If she's learned so much about survival and tracking here on the plateau that she could lose John like she did, how can we hope to find her, let alone make her understand that she's part of our family? How can we convince her to forgive us, or at least to take another chance on us, if we can't even get her to talk to us?"

They walked on in silence, each lost in thought. It was almost another mile before Ned suddenly threw back his head and laughed. The other three stopped and stared at him as he declared with a wide smile, "We're missing the obvious here!"

Veronica wrinkled her nose. "Huh?"

He hugged her reassuringly. "Challenger said she needs guidance to know what to do, but we've already given her that! She's seen it in _our_ lives over the last few years." He looked back and forth between the other two men over Veronica's head. When neither seemed to get it, he added, "We've each messed up and hurt someone else, probably more often than any of us would care to admit. And every time, the one that was hurt forgave the one responsible. Marguerite's seen it lots of times – and she's even let one or another of us off the hook now and then, so she definitely does know how it works. Maybe she just needed a reminder. As Challenger pointed out, she was close enough to hear us, so now she knows we've admitted that we were wrong, that we still love her, and that we want her to come home. We don't have to go looking for her again so we can explain anything or convince her to come back." He shrugged and beamed at each of his friends in turn. "All we have to do is go home and wait."

One of Challenger's ginger brows twitched upward as he considered the American's words. After only a moment of consideration, he too smiled and he nodded his approval of the journalist's conclusion. "Just so! Well done, Ned."

At the scientist's agreement, Roxton gave him a sharp, confused look. "What?"

Eyes aglow with satisfaction, George elaborated: "Malone is quite correct. In my preoccupation with Marguerite's past I neglected to factor in the interactions she's witnessed since arriving here. That young woman has one of the keenest minds I've ever known! She won't need further prompting to realize that coming home is the next logical step."

Veronica was smiling now, too, her blue eyes beginning to shine with renewed anticipation. "Because she's watched our lives over the last four years?"

"Sure. Especially you, Roxton," Ned grinned at him, pleased to be able to offer some genuine encouragement. "From the moment we set out from England, Marguerite's seen all of us blunder our way from being strangers to family. We've fought and made up with one another over and over again. Every single one of us made mistakes or misjudged one another over the years. Even Summerlee had to apologize once or twice. Marguerite's had a ringside seat to the whole thing. And she's been on the receiving end, too, when we forgave the lies, the tricks, the plots…" He made a face and added with a rueful grin, "Her incessant teasing…"

Roxton's lips curved upward like everyone else's at the memory of how the lovely linguist had tormented the initially naïve journalist. Ned winked at Veronica, and continued, "We put our lives in her hands. We made her part of our family. We've shown her time and again how to get past each other's faults. We might stay mad with one another for a while, but we always patched things up." He braced himself and looked straight into Roxton's dark green eyes before continuing. "She knew we were completely wrong about her taking the Marobi's sacred jewels, and now she knows we know it, too, because we told her so that morning we crossed paths with her. The bottom line is that we've all angered one another or hurt one another before, and we worked it out. This may've been a much bigger issue, but the basic process is the same, right? So now the only question is…?"

Veronica breathed, "Will she give us another chance? Will she come back?" Her gaze moved from Ned to Roxton, brows arched as she silently asked his opinion.

Absorbing his friends' reasoning, hope blossomed in Roxton's aching heart. George was right; Marguerite was a very smart woman. Ned was right, too; they'd become like a family, and all the information she needed was right at her fingertips. _Finding her family is the reason she came to the plateau, the reason she risked so much to find her birth certificate and learn her true identity._ _We aren't the blood relatives she expected to find, but we're her family, nonetheless. She probably spent the last nine months thinking we didn't want her to come back to us, but now she knows that the family she wanted wants her, too._ Maybe – just maybe! – his persistence in following her hadn't been a total mistake after all, even if he had erred in treating their encounter as a game. After all, George had noticed the same thing he had – that if she didn't still care about him, she could have hurt or even killed him numerous times while he'd been chasing her, just as she could have retaliated against them, but hadn't. He wouldn't have blamed her for avenging herself, but she hadn't even tried. _She must still love me, despite the fact that I let her down so badly. And where there's love, there's hope._

John found himself nodding slowly to Veronica. Marguerite had heard their apologies and knew now that they wanted her to be with them again; it might just be enough to bring her home, despite everything they'd said and done. If they went home and waited, she would come… wouldn't she?

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~


	6. Chapter 6 - Facing the Fear

**Chapter 6 Facing the Fear**

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

Marguerite woke from another restless sleep and looked around blankly for a moment before she recognized her surroundings: 'Home', if it could be called home. It was stark and empty. Her only furniture was a mere pallet, her "outhouse" was a trench in the corner that had been dug by the natives who originally built this hut, and her kitchen consisted of a small fire pit rimmed by rocks. There was a row of a half dozen clay jars that held her food and water supply, a canvas bag that stored her spare clothing and medical supplies, and of course she had a store of weapons. Limited light and fresh air filtered through the vine-covered bamboo roof, the cracked adobe-like walls, and the camouflaged doorway.

Ever since she'd returned to this hidden retreat after seeing Ned, Veronica, and Roxton, she'd been unsettled, shaken from her certainty about what she should do next. These past few days were the first time she'd questioned her future since she'd awakened here the morning after they'd essentially kicked her out of the tree house, and she loathed the limbo of this restlessness. It left her feeling fidgety, like she should be doing… something… if she could only figure out what that something should be.

She couldn't forget Veronica's tears, her apology, the sadness on Ned's face, the anguish on Roxton's open-hearted visage as he'd called out to her… and his plea: "Forgive me!" _I almost answered him – I actually had to fight the desire to do as he asked, which is completely illogical. It wouldn't have been in my best interests, not when they already showed me their true colors. Why should anything they say or do matter to me now? _And then there was Roxton's odd determination to find out where she was living. What was his purpose? Any other man might have taken the hint when the woman he was following seized every opportunity for days on end to leave him in the dust. A reasonable man would have given up when he ran out of provisions. But not Lord John Richard Roxton! No, the insufferable man had stayed right on her heels through every scheme she'd devised to escape him.

_I've killed men for inconveniencing me like he did… but that was a different world, and back then it was a matter of life and death._ She shook her head, acknowledging to herself that as annoying as Roxton's chase had been, and even though he'd been having far too much fun at her expense while doing it, she couldn't help but be impressed and – only a little, of course, and wholly in spite of her better judgment – _touched_ by his persistence. Now that she wasn't busy eluding him, his unwavering pursuit of her was prompting memories of his prolonged courtship. So many memories, all tied to a morass of emotions she'd been mercifully free from during these past nine months, images both painful and pleasant that refused to be shunted away now that they'd surfaced again.

Roxton. _Such an idealist, and a romantic, for all that he considers himself a cynic! He was always so ridiculously pleased when he thought I was acting selflessly. Even his disappointment in me when I behaved badly was usually just another reflection of his regard, because he believed – or at least I thought he did back then – that I was capable of better. He could be so sweet. Oh how I loved his laughter and the wonderful teasing sparkle in his eyes when we were flirting. And goodness! Such compassion whenever I was hurt, either physically or emotionally! How I craved that steadfast strength that John offers so freely to others! He always challenged me to see the better side of things, and dared me to be better than I thought I could be after everything I've done. The effort was worth it – for a while, anyway, although of course it came to nothing in the end. Still, it was nice while it lasted. How I miss his love, his tender kisses, the warmth of his arms, those charming smiles… and that silly lopsided grin of his, so boyish, so irrepressible. _

_He was always willing to set aside his own needs for the rest of us, rarely complaining, sometimes even going too far with that aristocratic 'honorable' and selfless stoicism, to his own detriment. The way that man pursued me is proof enough that he had far too little sense of what was best for him! Time after time John let me off the hook for my deceptions, secrets and moodiness. He'd get angry, sure, and say something hurtful… but then he'd be so adorably sorry he lost his temper and he'd forgive me, somehow, or come to realize that it wasn't as bad as he'd first thought, or even admit that he'd been wrong. Until that last time. Doesn't it figure that the one time he wouldn't believe me, the time he finally, irrevocably turned his back on me, would be a time I was actually innocent?_

_Oh, why am I even wasting my time thinking about this?! _

Marguerite rose from the pallet and paced back and forth in the gloomy windowless room. _That's the ticket: think about this place instead of about Jo – him!_ This was one of a half dozen places she was now calling 'home' as she wandered around the plateau. Abandoned when she'd found it, she had only made enough improvements to ensure that the ancient hut was weather tight, without changing its outward broken-down and overgrown appearance.

This was an old, familiar lifestyle: it had been second nature for her to maintain as many as a dozen lairs wherever she went, discreetly located and spread across the span of the current geographic region where she was currently working, each one provisioned with essentials for possible retreat. This had been her usual _modus operandi_ before the plateau, whether as a con artist, a thief and a spy – _and that means virtually my whole life_, she thought bitterly. It had once been as natural as breathing to seek out such places as soon as she moved to a new location.

This one had been established only weeks after being stranded here. She'd stumbled across the structure, almost hidden by the vines and underbrush that had grown up around it, during one of the cherished occasions when she'd slipped away from the others for some much-needed solitude. Unaccustomed as she'd been to being with the same people day in and day out for such a prolonged period of time, finding a few minutes alone had been vital to maintaining her sanity. Given the strain of maintaining an emotional distance from the adventurers, it had come as both a relief and a sheer delight to locate this place, so perfect for a bolt hole. Just in case anyone wormed their way too close for comfort or hindered her true goal of locating the Ouroboros, she'd prepared this refuge – despite Lord High-and-Mighty Roxton's suspicious surveillance – for possible need if she should decide it was in her best interests to break away from the others.

She'd stocked it during that initial time period, and then forgotten all about it as she had grown closer to the others and more involved with them. She'd never gotten around to setting up a second one… not until these last months when she'd found herself alone. Now, of course, she had her usual network of unlikely hideouts scattered over a twenty-five mile radius, all around this area of the plateau, each stocked with enough food, water, and basic medical supplies for a week to ten days.

But when the sky had fallen in on her world, there had only been this one place. The fact that she had remembered it at all had been sheer instinct. _If I hadn't had this place to go to_, _I probably wouldn't be alive today_, she acknowledged to herself. Here she had survived those first dreadful days and nights. This hovel had provided shelter and sustenance as she'd slowly, numbly realized that despite what she'd lost, she was still alive.

Life went on. Her heart had still been beating. She wasn't dead. Despite the emptiness inside and the pain hovering so near the surface, she lived. Beyond anything she could comprehend, her body had continued to function, albeit on instinct alone, ensuring its own survival, even though her heart had insisted it was beyond resurrection and her brain had been unable to put two logical thoughts into sequence for – well, she never had figured out how many days it had been until she woke up one day and admitted she was alive, whether she felt as if she was or not.

Alive. Survival. Ingrained instinct.

_Do what has to be done, avoid anything that remotely resembles a relationship with another human being, trust no one, stay nowhere long enough to develop habits or patterns or interests in others._ These same practices and their accompanying mindset had seen her safely through her turbulent younger years and her disastrous marriage, and then had enabled Parsifal not just to live through the work of the Great War, but to excel, to contribute the only worthwhile things she'd ever managed in her life.

She'd automatically resorted to that old guarded lifestyle after she'd been exiled. She'd done what it took to live from day to day, mechanically mastering the skills she needed to take care of herself in this lost world, maintaining an emotional detachment as she mentally reviewed everything she'd learned during her time on the plateau, and making the necessary plans to ensure that she had food and clothes and weapons.

And she'd succeeded, exactly as she always had in the past.

She'd survived, rested and eaten enough to stay strong, mapped out an area to call her own, set up her network of safe houses and provisioned them one at a time, and made herself familiar at several villages where she could trade for supplies. It hadn't been easy at first, scrambling to get back on her feet with only what she'd had here in this place as a resource from which to build.

She'd taken her first hunting bow from a headhunter who unwisely tried to make a meal of her on the wrong day, and then she'd stoically practiced until she'd mastered its use. She'd learned to make arrows with the same trial and error method. She plaited her whip with hide stripped from her own kill, and replaced her worn clothing and boots using the hides she tanned from that same animal and the others she hunted to supply her need for meat. These activities were plain and simple matters of survival, tasks she performed without thinking twice. Once she had her safe houses stocked, she hunted and gathered only what she needed to sustain her life and to trade for what she couldn't hunt or gather herself. Without conscious thought, she hadn't lingered in the villages; she bargained for what she needed and disappeared back into the jungle in as brief a time as possible, adhering to the precautions she'd developed long ago. The only real difference between her lifestyle these past few months and her life before the plateau was that now she went days, occasionally weeks, without seeing another human or speaking a word from sunrise to sunset.

The only old habit she'd discarded was searching for wealth to replace what she'd left behind in that place she would never again call 'home'. If she happened across a source, she might choose to mine a few stones to drop into the pouch tied to her belt, but once she'd cached a similar pouch in each of her retreats, she only replenished her supply if some of the gems had been used in trade.

She hadn't spent a lot of time deliberating about her loss of interest in wealth. She simply no longer had any need to accumulate a treasure. As she'd learned at her own expense, while riches in the outside world were a necessity, here on the plateau treasure was more of a liability than an asset. And since she no longer planned to leave this lost world, the vast resources she'd been seeking before were superfluous.

Electing to stop searching for a way to leave South America behind was another decision that had been intuitive. After all, if those people who had been closer to her than anyone else in her entire life could not believe in her, then no one on the outside ever would, either. Moreover, she found that even though her tree house family had betrayed her, she no longer had any desire to contemplate being again the mercenary, driven Marguerite Krux she'd once been, searching for security and an identity. No, she'd left that woman behind just as she'd left behind her emerging dreams of a "happily-ever-after" when she'd walked away from the tree house.

All she'd wanted these last nine and a half months was to carve out a way of life that would enable her to live until her instincts failed her as her friends had, and she died here in this lost world.

For nine months, the sun rose, the sun set, and each day passed.

It had been enough, until she'd seen them again – seen _him_ again, and then felt his presence every day. Only then had she awakened from the numbed nothingness in which she'd existed since the trauma of their betrayal. And now she wanted more than mere survival. Worse, she suspected that now she _needed_ more.

Acknowledging such a need made her uneasy, but it was the truth, and Marguerite Krux never shied from facing the truth. _Well, okay, I almost never avoid the truth, not when it's important. And the truth is that matching wits with John again was invigorating, stimulating, and, as much as I hate to admit it, downright fun. It was entertaining to outwit him, to tease him, to lead him into situations he didn't expect, to know he was enjoying it, too. But most of all it felt good – so good! – to know he was near again._

Yet at the same time, vastly outweighing the admittedly positive aspects of their encounter, she'd been scared stiff about the possibility that she might come face-to-face with him. She couldn't risk that.

She'd trusted them, trusted him. They'd each turned their backs on her, even him.

All the time she'd been fleeing from Lord John Richard Roxton, trying to beat him at his silly game by making him lose her trail, that pulse-pounding energy and vitalizing excitement had battled the deeply buried agony of their betrayal and the unnerving dread that it could happen again if she yielded to the lure of this remarkable, fearsome _feeling_.

She didn't want to feel again. She didn't want to remember how it had felt when they'd turned their backs to her one by one. Most of all, she didn't want to risk it ever happening again. _So why didn't I ditch him sooner? It would've been simple to elude him, if, beneath my need to avoid facing him, I didn't also care so deeply about him. I could have disabled him… but I couldn't bring myself to injure him and leave him helpless and vulnerable to the plateau's many predators. _

Since the night she'd walked away from the tree house she'd been cocooned by a lack of sensation, a blessed relief from the turmoil of emotions that had resulted from growing attached to her former housemates. Now it was all coming back to her, and she was already yearning for the numbness to return.

Unfortunately, being the realist that she was, that was unlikely to happen. So now, as she paced in her solitude, safe from imminent confrontation with the man who had broken his promises to her, she was thinking beyond the panicked adrenalin that had driven her while on that run from John, past the painful memories and the fierce need to escape for her own self-preservation.

_It wasn't just instinct making my decisions this last nine months_, she realized with mingled dismay and disgust. _It was fear._ _Yes, they betrayed me, refused to take my word and turned their backs on me. But it's not the first time that's happened in my life. I've never let rejection turn me from a goal before, whether it was simply scrounging for the next meal or developing a method of surviving the underworld of the Great War, or discovering my true name, my parentage, my history, my family –_ Marguerite paused midstep in her pacing, brow furrowed as images of Veronica, Ned, George, Summerlee, Roxton, and even Finn flashed through her mind. _I'm doing it again, picturing the others at the tree house when I think about family! Thanks to Lord John Roxton's bloody persistence, even though I ought to know better, I can't seem to stop equating them with family! I can't deal with this – _

_Wait. It's that fear again._

The realization drew her up short. She stared, unseeing, at the mud-plastered wall ahead of her. _I can't let fear keep me from facing what happened back then, or from what's happening now with them. I can't keep denying the truth. Whether I like it or not, in my heart and mind, they are my family, the only family I'll ever have. And that bloody tree house is home, not this place. _

But what good did it do to admit these things to herself if she was here in this hovel instead of there? _It's not as if I could go home; the idea of opening myself to that again is ludicrous!_ Still, she couldn't help pondering whether there was a chance that it might be worth going through the emotional wringer again for the sake of the ideal of a 'home'. _It was such a curse at first – a whole series of curses, truth be told – but the results weren't so bad, overall. I had a real family for the first time in my life. I belonged with them. They watched my back, and loved me – and it wasn't just passion or need, but the kind of love I sometimes saw in the families of other girls when I was young, the twice-blessed love that gives and nurtures through thick and thin. That's the kind of love I've seen them give to one another these past few years… _Marguerite frowned as she thought it through_. Maybe it's why they want me to come back? Maybe if I went back as they asked, maybe I wouldn't be betrayed again. They did seem genuinely sorry – Veronica's never been a good actress, so I know she really meant it, which means the others must mean it, too. Could I trust her again? Could I trust HIM again?_

_Wait!_ Marguerite sank back down onto her pallet, blinking in startled realization as the memory of his words – "You're on your own!" "We're through! Do you hear me?" – flashed through her mind in quick succession. "Your secrets are safe with me," he'd vowed, and "I'd give my last breath for you." _ We've done it before, haven't we? And it didn't just happen with John and I; it happened with the others, too… _

How often had she turned her back on the others, sometimes just figuratively but often literally, especially in those early days, with her half-truths, schemes, and greed, refusing their repeatedly extended friendship, betraying them time after time in her quest for identity and security? It hadn't mattered whether she'd admitted or denied culpability, offered an apology or excused herself; they'd treated her as one of them. It was Arthur who'd first told her everything was new here, and they could each be anyone they wanted to be. She hadn't believed it was feasible then, but over time… John had convinced her it was possible, if she'd only dare to trust him, to trust them.

A wry smile twisted her lips at the flare of fear that twisted her stomach at the thought of trusting them again. _I will not be ruled by fear. Maybe it's time to move past just being alive. Maybe it's time to start truly living again. And maybe it's time to trust them again, as they asked_.

New chances.

Her whole life here on the plateau had been full of second chances – and even third and fourth chances – granted by the others.

New beginnings.

John had believed she could have a new start, that each of them could set the past aside - not forget it, but live beyond it, grow beyond it, make a new beginning . . . together.

Marguerite drew her knees up and hugged them to her chest. _Why did Veronica ever become my friend, after I sold her to be Jacoba's bride while she was helpless and the others were away rescuing Assai? _Veronica had forgiven Marguerite - eventually. _She gave me chance after chance, regardless of my cruel disrespect to her hopes of finding her parents after all these years, or my unwillingness to do my part as a guest in her home. She kept reaching out to me, although reluctantly at times, until I learned to be a friend in return._

_And how often did Ned overlook my taunting, my rudeness and jeering at his gentle-heartedness?_ She'd driven the poor boy to near violence more than once, she recalled, especially when she'd teased about his feelings for their pretty jungle hostess, and ridiculed his precious journals. _Yet he accepted me for who I was, and offered his friendship with the generosity characteristic of the man - cautious at first, but willing to start over every time I disappointed or frustrated him with nasty words and actions._

George Challenger. _How I used to mock him!_ _Of course his self-confidence and egotism just begged to be shot down, and I did my level best to gleefully point out the least sign that he might be fallible. Yet he was fair about acknowledging my scientific skill and academic pursuits, the first man to respect my intelligence in more years than I care to recall._ He'd been willing to trust some of his precious work to her, and had been up front in giving her credit when things had gone well, taking all the blame himself if things hadn't gone as expected. _He believed in me and gave me opportunities in the lab that tremendously enlarged my horizons. He didn't always approve of me, but he did always respect me._

_And then there's Lord John Richard Roxton_. Marguerite shifted uncomfortably, dropped her chin onto one knee, and rocked back and forth slightly. She'd deliberately saved thinking about him until last; after all, he was the most important member of her tree house family, the enigma in her world where men only used women. _Oh, he wanted the same old thing at first, just like other men I've known. But it wasn't long before I realized that his lust had turned to something more. He saw something in me that interested him, something he refused to let go of no matter how often I rebuffed him._

Over and over he presented the opportunity for a relationship deeper than friendship. No matter how rude and chilly her reply, he'd offered himself as her staunch support every time she needed a strong shoulder. He'd promised to be there for her, and had demonstrated his loyalty so often that she'd grown to rely on his word. His constancy had convinced her that with him she could reveal her true self without needing to fear.

_Yes, he broke that promise… but only once._ _Only _once_ out of how many dozens of times he could have – probably _should_ have left me high and dry_! _He stood by me more often than I could count, defended me, believed in me, urged me to do right, and loved me even if I didn't choose to do what he thought was right. No matter what we fought over, how badly I treated him, or how much I'd angered him, John was always ready to reconcile our differences._

Images of the handsome hunter flashed through her mind, and she caught her breath, her heart skipping giddily as she allowed herself to dwell on the memories instead of shutting them down; that crazy lopsided grin of his, so frequently aimed in her direction; the battered old hat perched jauntily on his soft dark hair, shading his velvety, deep green eyes from the tropic sun; the athletic grace with which he swung the axe as sweat glistened on his bared torso; the determined set of his wide shoulders when he'd pushed her to one side and faced a T-Rex, then heroically drawn the monster away; his stoicism the many times she'd stitched or patched him up after he'd been injured defending her or one of the others; the gravelly tone his voice took on when he was flirting with her; the agility and lightness with which he'd waltzed her around the Great Room, swinging her right off her feet; the tender smiles and loving caresses in that cave where they'd been trapped…

_The man just doesn't know when to quit. None of them do._ It was part of what had drawn them all together as they worked through the larger challenges of surviving on the plateau and the lesser challenges of living together in the tree house. Somehow, they all ended up just a little closer to one another after problems were resolved, no matter who had been at fault.

A saying from her past tickled her consciousness, and she quirked a brow as she concentrated to retrieve it. When the nuns had quoted this phrase at feuding youngsters in the orphanage, the children had known they were expected to dutifully chant, "Yes, Sister," but the biblical ideal hadn't seemed to match her experience, so she'd thrust it to the back of her mind. _What was it again? "Charity covers a multitude of sins"… or something like that. And something about forgiving others even as God forgives us… maybe? _ The Sisters used to scold that if the children loved one another as the Bible commanded, they would pardon one another's transgressions and get along. _I didn't believe in it back then, what with everyone holding grudges against me all the time. It was me against the world. Yet after all the things I've done, not to mention the person I've been, it seems it might be true after all. Love covers a multitude of sins. That's what I've seen at the tree house. What other reason could there be than love for the others to have accepted me in the first place, and for John to believe that I deserve better than I've allowed myself? It has to be love. They love me. They asked me to forgive them and come home. Unlike the people I knew before Challenger's Expedition, these people live what the nuns tried to drill into us back then._

She surged to her feet and paced back and forth again. The numbness was definitely gone, and it left her wide open for the pain, the fear, and the panic. But as powerful as those emotions were, there was something else, something that might actually run deeper than those awful feelings. She stamped her foot in irritation with her own foolhardiness as she admitted the ultimate truth to herself with a grimace and a muttered curse: _It's not safe and it makes no sense at all after they hurt me as they did, but I love all of them. I miss them… I miss John. And I want to go home!_

Now if she only knew what the devil to do about all of these bloody conflicting emotions!

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~


	7. Chapter 7 - The Home Front

**Chapter 7 The Home Front**

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Sorry for the delay; the ophthalmologist restricted my computer use due to an eye infection, and while I'd have preferred to write, the hours in front of a monitor at work were as much as my eyes could take this week.

Thank you for taking time to review, Gast and SunKrux. Here's the next chapter:

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

Dusk had fallen, dinner was over, and it would soon be time to call it a night, but everyone was dragging their feet about going to bed.

Roxton knew all too well what was holding them all back. _Another day, and Marguerite hasn't come back._ _It's weighing on each of us, but the others won't openly admit it, for my sake, and there's not a bloody thing I can do._ He kept his gaze on the disassembled rifle spread out on the table before him, but was actually surreptitiously observing his friends. He was familiar enough with cleaning the weapon that his hands performed the motions even as his attention strayed to his housemates.

Challenger shelved the last dishes, chuckling a little and muttering in satisfaction about what his Jessie would think if she could see him now, taking his turn at washing up the dinner dishes instead of immersing himself in his lab work!

A ghost of a smile tilted Roxton's lips. _I have no idea whether George talked to himself as he worked before we set out to find this lost world, but_ _I don't recall the habit from our earliest days on the plateau. Then again, he had Arthur to discuss everything with when we first arrived. After several years of working alone – especially after Finn and Marguerite were both gone – he either doesn't realize or doesn't care that we can usually hear him._ _And because he's so accustomed to voicing his thoughts, he's the only one who's mentioned doubts about his hypothesis that Marguerite will return._ Sure enough, the scientist was now commenting (with far less amusement) on how shocked his wife would be if she could see how his work was interrupted by his continual worry over the still-missing heiress. Challenger carried the dirty dishwater out to the balcony as he speculated yet again about whether his conclusion had been flawed. "No," he frowned while tilting the wooden tub and dumping the dishwater over the railing, "My facts are accurate, my logic is sound; the others concurred. It's merely a matter of more time." His now-troubled gaze shifted to the younger adults, each quietly engaged in their own tasks.

Roxton was careful to seem absorbed in his work, not in the mood for yet another "encouraging" discussion about being patient. George sighed, returning to the kitchen to stow the tub until the next time it was needed. He lingered there, meticulously hanging the dish towels to dry. "How remarkable that I should come to care to the extent I do. It's quite as if they're each my own progeny," he frowned, his brow creasing. "Jessie always wanted children, but if this is how it affects a parent when its offspring has gone astray, I'm thankful that she isn't bearing such a burden all alone back at home while I'm stranded here – and equally thankful that I'm not stranded here and worrying about a biological child I've left behind in England! This concern I'm experiencing over Marguerite, Roxton, Ned and Veronica is more than enough to worry about."

Across the great room, Ned and Veronica exchanged fondly amused looks at the scientist's very audible musings before they each returned to their own activities.

Roxton watched discreetly as the American closed his journal after finishing his day's entry and leaned pensively back in his chair at the table. _I have no doubt he's wondering how much longer he's going to have to close his journal entries with those two sentences about Marguerite._ He'd have scolded Marguerite for doing what he'd done the day that he'd caught a glimpse of her name in Malone's compact script on the pages of the open book, but he hadn't been able to resist a quick glimpse. And then, curious, he'd flipped back and discovered that each and every journal entry in the book, which dated back to soon after they'd lost her, closed with the sentence "No sign of Marguerite's return to us." The journal chronicled their search – and their guilt – just as honestly as Ned had recorded the rest of their life on the plateau.

_My respect for Neddy-boy has only increased as I read in his journal about the ways he's been trying to comfort and support Veronica, George and I even as he's struggled with his own guilt._ _And wouldn't Marguerite rake me over the coals for continuing to read his journal once I did it the first time… purely to see what he's come up with to sustain his hope another day. How I've needed his stubborn optimism to buoy my own!_ Someday he'd work up the courage to let Malone know how much he appreciated the younger man's calm steadfastness and support.

Recently – since they'd come home from the village where she'd given him the slip – Ned had taken to adding "Maybe tomorrow she'll be home" at the end of each day's entry, but even the usually positive journalist was having difficulty sustaining his belief. It had been longer than any of them expected to have to wait once they'd come home from the village where Marguerite had vanished yet again. _I completely empathize with what he wrote yesterday, that it would feel like betraying her all over again if he gave up his habitual journal closing and stopped mentioning her name. If Marguerite doesn't come… Well, Malone may be right that it would be the death of me. But the others… if it weren't for my presence here, the others might be able to get past this and move on. _

_Well, no…_ Roxton's gaze moved to his final housemate as he amended his thought. _Veronica might move on, but she won't truly get over this if she doesn't have the opportunity to clear the air with Marguerite._ The voluptuous blonde had just finished washing her paint brushes, and was now securing the damp tools in their storage jar until the next time she had a quiet evening to paint. _She's pouring her emotions into her art, and with how closely we've been sticking to home, she's made a lot of progress on her painting lately. George did an amazing job with the last set of pigments he mixed for her, and the canvases Ned prepared are so nicely stretched on the frames that the last three haven't sagged at all. I wonder if she realizes that the subject of her latest watercolor is Marguerite's favorite – _his thoughts broke off as Veronica glanced around the room. She exchanged another quick smile with Ned before her gaze settled on Roxton. He quickly pretended to be absorbed in his task, all too aware of her concerned expression as she regarded him.

He allowed himself to glance up and meet her gaze fleetingly, as a hunter should when detecting that he was being watched, summoned a crooked grin of acknowledgement, and turned his eyes back to his half-cleaned rifle barrel as if the maintenance was the only thing on his mind. _It won't fool her, but she won't call me on it. We've barely left the compound since returning from that village. Even though it's been almost ten days since we arrived home, and supplies are running low, none of us want to chance being away while she might come back. I'm not the only one who delays chores and errands that would take me away from the tree house. They know as well as I do that the more time passes, the less likely it is that Marguerite is going to respond by coming home, and they each want to be here to welcome her, just as I do. None of us wants to risk not being here to make sure she stays. _

But now another day was ended, and there was a dejected slump in Veronica's shoulders that mirrored Ned and George's as they accepted that one more day, one additional opportunity, had slipped away. It weighed on her, this waning hope. When Assai had visited shortly after they returned from that village, Roxton had been impressed anew with the fact that Veronica had grown to love Marguerite like a real sister; he'd overheard the blonde confessing to Assai how much she longed to enjoy another argument with Marguerite, or join her on the balcony to watch their men chop wood or work on the fence, or even listen to Marguerite's slightly off-key singing while she sewed or cleaned up around the house. Assai had hugged her and cried with her, and said she hoped their waiting would bear fruit. _Waiting. It's the waiting that's killing us. If only there was some way to know one way or another, it would make this bloody waiting so much easier! _

_Surely if George and Ned were right about how Marguerite has observed acts of forgiveness and reconciliation during the four years she lived with us – and both Veronica and I agreed that she did – surely she should have acted by now, now that she's heard our apologies and knows that we want to have her back with us! I know she has good reason to be angry and distrustful of us, and certainly she's proven that she can be vindictive when she chooses, but she wouldn't make us wait to punish us, would she? _Roxton frowned as he answered his own question. _No; maybe in the early years, but not after all we've been through together. So why hasn't she come? She's had plenty of time to think! Plenty of time to head for home!_

But she hadn't come. Maybe the skittish widow wasn't going to give them another chance to hurt her again. Much as he hated the thought, Roxton couldn't blame her after what they'd done.

The sudden sound of the elevator's gears squealing in protest as it started to descend to the ground brought all four adults abruptly from their meditations to full alertness.

"What the -" Roxton sprang from the bench and lunged for a fully assembled rifle. _Someone activated the switch! It should have been locked up tight for the night! __No warning sounds from the electric fence, no sound of the gate below – or did I miss it, too, caught up in feeling sorry for myself?_ He flushed guiltily; he ought to have checked the perimeter fence to make certain it was set properly. He'd been avoiding the nightly task, knowing he'd only end up staring longingly out into the jungle in search of Marguerite.

Veronica pulled her knife from its sheath at her waist and crouched, ready to spring in any direction as her gaze flitted across the great room while she listened attentively to the sounds around the tree house, in case someone was using the elevator as a distraction to cover an attack coming at them from another direction.

Ned and Challenger sprang to the rifle rack and grasped their weapons, too, only a moment behind Lord Roxton, facing the elevator as it began to rise again.

As usual, George muttered to himself. "We aren't expecting visitors, are we? It's well after dark now. Not even Assai would approach without calling a greeting up to us once night has settled over the jungle. And how did someone manage to unlock the safety catches on the contraption?! That shouldn't be possible!"

Ned nodded in grim agreement, but remained silent, all three men's gun barrels trained on the elevator shaft opening as the bamboo basket neared the top.

They certainly didn't expect to see the dark-haired heiress standing in the open cage when it came to a stop at the slab. She didn't move for a moment, simply stood there while her shadowed eyes warily scanned them all. They stood frozen, staring at her in amazement, Challenger, Ned and Veronica's eyes widening at her different clothes and the new weapons she carried.

While her clothing and armament might be new, it was definitely their Marguerite who met their stunned stares with a brief smile. After an awkward moment of silence, she uneasily cleared her throat. "Hello," she said, unsure of her reception as she noted that their weapons weren't being lowered. _Having three cocked rifles trained on me is more akin to the rejection I've feared than the welcome I hoped for._ "I'm sorry about breaking in like this. I'm a bit far from my place. Mind if I stay here tonight?" Her clear gaze settled on Veronica for a moment, then swung to the men again with nervous bravado. "Or does all this hardware imply that I should turn around and leave again as quickly as possible?"

The smile that accompanied her words was credible, but they heard the quaver that couldn't quite be suppressed. They took startled looks at one another, noticed their threatening postures, realized what she meant by "hardware" and, much to Marguerite's relieved gratification, almost simultaneously all three men flushed guiltily and lowered their weapons.

Veronica smiled tremulously, face lighting with joy as the situation sank in and she realized that she wasn't imagining this. "Marguerite!" she breathed, then recalled the brunette's question. "Mind?! No, no, I don't mind at all! Marguerite!" she leaped forward – and froze after only two bounces as the other woman flinched back, her hand instinctively darting toward the lift control in response to the blonde's unexpected movement. Following Marguerite's gaze, she looked down and belatedly remembered the knife still in her hand. She promptly dropped it to the floor, hoping to reassure her obviously nervous friend. Then she stepped forward again, slowly this time, arms outstretched in welcome and palms upward to reinforce her peaceful intentions. "I should have known only you could get through the safety catches on the elevator!" she grinned warmly. "Welcome home!"

She stepped into the elevator cage, gently grasped the slender hand not gripping a bow, and firmly tugged Marguerite back into the great room with her, beaming from ear to ear. Marguerite allowed herself to be pulled forward, but warily. Once Veronica had the cautious brunette well away from the lift, she gave in to her eagerness again, throwing her arms around the other woman, enveloping her in an enthusiastic bear hug, tears of delight trickling down her cheeks. "Oh Marguerite, I'm so glad to see you!"

The obviously joyful greeting was balm to the brunette's battered heart. Her own tears welled up as she hugged Veronica back. "Thank you," she whispered softly into Veronica's ear.

The sight of the two women embracing – it was really Marguerite! – freed the men from their frozen positions.

Ned let loose a shout of glee, his grin breaking forth, and he too jumped forward. He threw his arms around both women. "You're home!" he rejoiced, tightly squeezing them both within his embrace.

George Challenger also grinned widely as he rushed to join in offering a warm reception. "Welcome back, Marguerite, welcome back," he repeated over and over, huskily, reaching over the younger pair to gently pat his lost sheep's dark head.

Roxton stood stock still, his rifle unnoticed at his hand as he stared hungrily at her. _She's back! She chose to come back to us, back to me! I have another chance! _Abruptly, heavily, he sat down. He didn't look first; he'd have ended up on the floor if a chair hadn't happened to be behind him, but his legs simply wouldn't hold him up for another second. _She's home!_

Marguerite, even though the others surrounded her, had been painfully aware of Roxton's motionless stance until the moment he sank from view, and she immediately pushed through the others toward him. The trio quieted, turning to watch worriedly as the dark-haired beauty moved to kneel before the overcome hunter.

She'd arrived in the yard below well before dark, but had paced the compound, telling herself she was checking for sign of the Marobi, but really attempting to rebuild her courage, afraid that she was making a mistake to come back. All the reasoning that had prompted her to come this far had deserted her once it was time to take the last step, to activate the lift that would carry her up into his presence, to face the risk that he might reject her again, that they might all betray her once more. Among the many scenarios she'd envisioned since deciding to come back, though, she'd never imagined that her return would affect Lord Roxton like this. She placed her quiver and bow on the floor. Then she eased his rifle from his shaking grip, and set it aside on the floor as well. Hesitantly she rested one small hand on his knee and looked up at the still-motionless, white-faced man staring down at her. Unsure of his reaction, she whispered, "I'm sorry, John. Should I have stayed away?"

Her words puzzled him for a moment, but then he frowned. _Marguerite is apologizing to me? Good Lord, after all I've done to her, she's the one on her knees?!_ He grimaced, trying to gather his scattered wits even as he marveled anew at this woman's capacity to surprise him. Then he saw her tense and square her shoulders as she fought back the tears that glistened in her sea green eyes. She looked away, biting her lower lip, and withdrew her hand from his leg. It took only an instant for Roxton to realize that his befuddled reaction had been interpreted by her as an answer to her second sentence, which was only now sinking in. _No! No, she must think I'm rejecting her again, saying she should have stayed away! I have to explain before I do any more damage!_

"Don't!" He succeeded in catching hold of her retreating hand, but his voice came out as little more than a croak, so he swallowed hard before he tried again, relieved as she stilled and her gaze flew back to his face. Gripping her hand tightly, he rasped out, "No, please don't go. And don't apologize. You have nothing to apologize for, Marguerite." He settled her hand back onto his knee, covering it with his own to keep it there, and lifted his other hand, not even attempting to conceal its trembling, and tenderly cupped her cheek. "I'm the one. I'm the one. Forgive me?" he managed to ask huskily.

She saw the shadow in his eyes, heard the guilt in his voice and… fear? Her eyes widened in wonder. _He's afraid I'll reject him for what he did, just like I've been afraid he didn't really want me back_! She released a shaky sigh, blinked back her tears, and summoned a shadow of a smile. Striving for a teasing tone, she quizzed gently, "Didn't you already ask me to do that? Aren't I here?" She leaned into his palm, briefly closing her eyes as she cherished his touch.

His strength flooded back at her words, and, with a groan of relief, he lifted her up, onto his lap, and held her close. "Marguerite!" he pressed a kiss over the wisps of hair curling beside her cheek and whispered, "Welcome home! Thank you for coming home!"

She tilted her face up to smile bashfully at him, and instantly sobered. Awed, she touched his face, inhaling sharply at the dampness that proved she really was seeing tears on his wind-roughened skin. _I mean so much to him, after I led him such a needless chase? Not even a hint of anger or resentment that I bested him and ruined his game? No recriminations for staying away? If this was any man I've known before, I'd be required to grovel before him to appease his wounded vanity, but this incredible man just welcomes me home and weeps tears of gladness! How can I ever live up to such a deep love?_ "Don't cry, John. It's over and done. It's not worth crying over, and anyway" she swallowed, blushing, her voice unsteady as her eyes dropped from his. In a barely audible whisper she forced out the words that could spell her doom: "I still have secrets." _There. I've reminded him of the biggest issue that annoys him; no pretending that coming back means that everything's going to be perfect._

The break in her voice made him frown again, and he refocused to comprehend the words she'd just spoken to him. His mind cleared. _Did she just say what I think she said? Of course she did!_ "Not worth crying over – Marguerite!" He kept one arm around her, and raised his free hand to place two fingers beneath her chin, gently lifting until he could gaze into her troubled eyes. His heart nearly broke all over again when he read the apprehension in her gray-green orbs and caught a glimmer of the courage it must have taken for her to return to them without any assurance that they would accept her, that they wouldn't betray her again. "You are the bravest, most incredible woman I've ever known," he said sincerely, his words startling her into parting her lips in a silent 'oh' of surprise.

Desperate to reassure her that her uncertainty wasn't necessary, Roxton bent his head to hers and kissed her. The slender woman tensed for a moment, but then responded almost shyly, twisting toward him and sliding her hands up over his shoulders.

The trio observing the reunion exchanged relieved grins as Marguerite melted into John's embrace. Finally! Ned wrapped his arms around Veronica and nuzzled her neck, and Challenger averted his gaze from both couples and busied himself perusing a book from a nearby shelf as they all waited.

When Roxton finally let his lady come up for air, she was dreamy-eyed and pink-cheeked, content to rest her head on his shoulder and remain on his lap. "I missed you," she confessed softly to John, then looked beyond him at the others, her blush deepening at their knowing smiles. "All of you."

"We missed you, too," George assured her with a wide smile. Anxious to get past the potentially embarrassing private moment the couple had just shared, he suggested eagerly, "I'll put your things in your room. Where are they? Down below, still?"

"No, I don't have anything else."

Their smiles stiffened.

Roxton's arms tightened around her, and he had to draw a deep steadying breath before he could muster his voice. "You - aren't staying?" he asked.

"Staying?" she looked down, clearly nervous again, and noticed a new scar on his jaw, obtained somehow while they had been separated. _Would it have made a difference if I'd been with him?_ She absently reached up to trace it as she gathered her courage and inhaled a steadying breath before she met his eyes again as she spoke into the silence. "Do you want me to stay?"

"YES!" Roxton's bellow nearly deafened Marguerite even as the further tightening of his embrace threatened to squeeze the breath from her body. She blinked, taken aback by the strength of his instinctive reaction.

"Marguerite, you have to stay! Please!" Veronica's heartfelt cry was just as urgent as the hunter's, but she went on to say, "We were so wrong to treat you as we did, and we're sorry. I'm sorry. Please let us make it up to you. Come home for good?"

"You should never have left in the first place. Please move back in, stay with us," Malone's plea was voiced with a shamed blush. "I'll give you editorial privileges," he added hopefully.

"Marguerite," Challenger's voice was somber, and the other explorers could see the brunette blanch at the sudden change to his professorial lecture tone. Everyone hushed, unsure what he might be about to say. "Miss Krux," he amended, and then cleared his throat.

Roxton could feel her tense in his embrace, and he glared at the red-headed scientist.

Naturally, George ignored him and plunged into a speech he'd obviously rehearsed, in his head if not actually aloud. "I deeply regret your unjustified and inexcusable expulsion from the Challenger Expedition, and take full responsibility for the resulting alienation. As a scientist, there's simply no excuse for acting on incomplete and unverified data. Worse yet, as someone who has been, and would like to be again, proud to be known as one of your friends, I should have known better." His entire face was now scarlet, clashing with his ginger hair, but no one found this the least bit funny; the depth of his remorse was far too evident. "I should have trusted your word, regardless of… well, regardless. I only hope you can accept my vow that nothing like this will ever happen again. I humbly beg your forgiveness, and hope you will resume your rightful place in the Expedition, and in our family."

The others were just as stunned as Marguerite at Challenger's unprecedented apology.

"It wasn't just your fault, Professor," Ned pointed out gruffly, and met Marguerite's misty gaze where she still sat on Roxton's lap. "We were each guilty of doing you a terrible wrong, Marguerite. Please forgive us."

"Me too," Veronica choked. "We should have had faith in you, no matter what."

"Please, Marguerite," Roxton entreated in a hoarse whisper scarcely audible even to Marguerite's ears, his eyes filled with emotion. "Forgive us. Forgive me. Stay."

Her eyes shone with unshed tears as she looked at each of them in turn, flushing at being the focus of their very intense attention. She nodded jerkily. "I'll be happy to stay," she admitted, then hesitated. _Nothing ventured, nothing gained – and it's not like I'm going to give everything away. It's only one location._ Resolutely she said, "If you're sure you want me here, there are a few things I wouldn't mind having with me. If anyone has time, you might come along to help me bring them - home." She said the last word softly, slowly, savoring the sound of it, and wondered if any of them would grasp what was really behind her request. She watched them from beneath her lashes, refusing to yield to the urge to wring her hands as she awaited their responses.

Roxton's eyes lit with relieved pleasure as the truth dawned on him. _She's giving this everything she has, offering to reveal her safe place. She's extending her trust to us, inviting us to become part of the life she's been living. And she's doing it right up front, not waiting for us to prove ourselves to her again. This is her way of telling us she intends to forgive us._ John grinned over at George, Ned and Veronica, willing them to comprehend what she was trying to do. Fortunately, he could see by their tender, touched expressions that they, too, understood what Marguerite was offering.

"What a splendid idea!" Challenger enthused.

Veronica nodded, interested. "I wouldn't miss it, Marguerite."

"So where is this place?" Ned asked curiously.

"Actually, it isn't far from where our balloon first landed, just a small place I set up a few years ago. I guess this sort of qualifies as one of the minor secrets of my past."

The words and the exaggeratedly resigned tone she adopted were an invitation to resume the former banter she'd often exchanged with the reporter, and he recognized it as such. "Aha!" he chortled, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "Good! Another tale to record!" Then he gulped. What if he'd misread her intention?! In a hasty attempt to backtrack as lightly as possible, he smiled and wagged his brows at the dark-haired woman. "If you don't mind telling us, of course, or having me write it down."

Roxton, not having caught the nuances Ned has seen so easily, frowned at him but the woman on his lap didn't clam up. Instead she only laughed at Ned's antics and indulged the genuine curiosity she knew he was restraining. She slid off Roxton's lap, to his dismay, but settled on another chair beside him as if she knew he couldn't yet bear any distance between them. _Maybe she does know! Or maybe she feels the same?_ With that optimistic thought, he focused his gaze on her lovely face as he listened.

To Ned's great satisfaction, she explained about the safe house she'd established in the very first months after they'd been stranded on the plateau, how she'd set it up and then forgotten it. She even gave them a brief description of some of the updates she'd made over the last few months before concluding, "I used the old hut as a base of operations, and branched out from there for hunting and trading." Then she glanced around the familiar room. "So what's been happening here? The tree house looks like it's intact, so George must not have been working with any explosives lately." Her dancing eyes focused on the scientist.

He chuckled ruefully, appreciative of her attempt to set him at ease again. "You're right, I haven't. Although now you put me in mind of it, I did intend to start working on a new formula to stabilize that substance we found in the fissure over by Summerlee River…"

They talked on and on, catching up with one another. Marguerite seemed quite willing to remain seated beside Roxton. Despite their audience, she didn't object when he reached over and gently grasped her hand, his thumb tenderly rubbing her palm. She did a bit of discreet caressing herself, her knee brushing against his thigh as she sat turned toward him, one slender arm bent over the back of their chairs so her fingers could play casually in the dark hair along his shirt collar. The familiar scent of the nobleman was a welcome aroma, soothing after so long being so far away from him. She knew that if she gave any indication of wanting to be alone with him, their friends would find excuses to depart for other areas of the tree house. But as deeply as she yearned to be with John, she needed the comfort of having them all together just as much. After so much solitude, she delighted in hearing their voices and watching their faces and gestures. She drank in their laughter and stories, and basked in their banter with one another.

_She's not volunteering much about her own activities_, Roxton noticed, _other than to answer the few questions the others have ventured_. No one pushed her for other details about how she'd lived without them. He was pleased that Ned in particular took care to be extra sensitive to the subtle cues of posture and shifting gaze; if Marguerite exhibited the vaguest hint of discomfort with a conversational direction, he suppressed his journalistic tendencies and deflected by directing a comment toward one of the others. _I'm sure she's aware that we're all leery of offending her by probing into anything she might be unwilling to discuss; it's no surprise that she's content to accept our consideration. There'll be plenty of time to talk about everything when she's ready, now that she's back. _

He was pretty sure she'd noticed the concerned looks being exchanged by the others as they gradually absorbed the changes in her while they talked. _She probably doesn't understand that one of the reasons for everyone's restraint is that they can now see, as I did the first night I was following her, that she's lost an alarming amount of weight._ While the sun-kissed hue of her skin gave her the surface appearance of good health, she'd obviously had a difficult time without them. _Each of us is all-too-aware that her separation from us was our fault, not hers, and although she hasn't complained about suffering while she was on her own, I can see that the others think she's too thin, too._

He knew what must be going through their minds, just as he'd pondered all of the probabilities and possibilities while he'd been following her. _Maybe she had difficulty gathering the right variety of food for a balanced diet, or perhaps she simply didn't care to eat sufficient amounts of food after we cast her out of the home we shared. Or, worse still to imagine, what if she was seriously ill, possibly even near death, with no one to help her, and she's only now recovering?_ They didn't want to dampen the celebration of her return by dwelling on anything negative, so no one came right out and asked her about her health. _Whatever the cause, Marguerite hasn't been eating enough._

After he caught the third considering glance Veronica cast toward the kitchen, Roxton realized he should have expected this to be particularly concerning to her; their jungle-bred hostess knew firsthand how time-consuming it could be to provide for your own nutritional needs on the plateau. But she'd been trained from childhood to fend for herself in this environment; Marguerite had only had a few years to learn. _She's blaming herself for the difficulty Marguerite must have gone through to find enough food on her own_, he mused, and wondered how long it would be before the resourceful blonde found a way to provide Marguerite with a balanced diet.

He'd barely completed the thought when Veronica suggested a snack before they retired to bed.

Ned and George's hearty endorsement of the proposal startled Marguerite. _What in the world did they have for dinner that left all three of them so ready for a snack? And why does John find it so funny?_

Roxton rose, scooping up the rifle discarded at his feet, and she followed him to the table while the others headed to the kitchen. By the time the dark haired couple had moved the last disassembled rifle and stowed the guns he'd cleaned before her arrival, the table was piled with nourishing selections, practically emptying the pantry. Marguerite arched a brow in bemusement. "What's this, killing the fatted calf for the return of the prodigal?" she joked, and chuckled at their blushing protests as she slid into her old seat beside Roxton at the table, hanging her quiver and bow off the back of the chair without conscious thought.

Much to their watchful dismay, although she'd joined them willingly enough, she barely touched anything. She accepted a small portion of fruit and a slice of bread, but turned down everything else she was offered. When she frowned at Veronica's third insistence that she try a bit of this or that, Roxton discreetly warned them off with a frown and a small shake of his head. But after the linguist refused coffee as well, none of them could hide their shock.

Marguerite laughed at their expressions and teased, "How often did you all tell me I drank too much coffee!"

"Yeah, but since when did you ever listen?!" Ned shot back, shaking his head in amused disbelief at the concept of the prickly heiress reducing her intake of her favorite beverage merely because they suggested it to her. Then he grimaced as he realized what he'd said, concerned that she might be offended. He was visibly relieved when Marguerite simply grinned back at him.

She still waved off the cup of fragrant brew he extended again to her. "I may have some with breakfast," she suggested in an attempt to placate the obviously disappointed journalist. _Maybe John will make it for me as he used to do. It seems important to reinstate the old rituals we enjoyed, and coffee at night simply doesn't feel right. __Besides, I'm too nervous about all of this to eat or drink most of the food they're offering. I doubt it would stay down._ No, she definitely didn't want to mar their first night back together with anything as unpleasant as her stomach refusing to retain a simple snack. It wouldn't do to let them know that she was so unsure of both herself and them that her stomach was actually churning. _One step at a time_, she told herself firmly. _Just take it one step at a time._

Once they reluctantly accepted that she couldn't be persuaded to eat anything else, Ned helped Veronica clear the table. The blonde couple worked together so smoothly that the task was done in only a few minutes, a fact that prompted some mild teasing from Marguerite about how close they'd grown. Not willing to part from her, the couple came back to the table and reseated themselves, chatting on until George Challenger finally noted the obviously late hour and insisted that everyone get some rest. "We can talk again in the morning," he pointed out reasonably.

"That's true," Veronica and Ned agreed simultaneously, and when Marguerite smirked knowingly at them they both blushed at this new evidence of how much time they'd been spending together.

Roxton found himself laughing. _She doesn't have to say a single word to taunt them! Not that she's being scornful; she seems to approve._

Marguerite rose from the table along with the others at the scientist's prompting, her eyes twinkling at the young couple's clearly besotted behavior. She accepted Ned and Veronica's quick hugs goodnight and Challenger's paternal kiss on her forehead.

No one was surprised when Roxton lingered at her side with no sign of turning in himself; they simply left the couple alone as they headed downstairs to prepare for bed.

They all knew private apologies needed to be made before Roxton and Marguerite would be able to part company for the night.

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~


	8. Chapter 8 - Mending Fences

**Chapter 8 Mending Fences**

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Author Note: My thanks to MMMidge, stonedrose, Anniexus, SunKrux, and Gast for taking the time to review. I'm glad the re-write pleases those who are re-reading this story, and pleased that it's also liked by new readers. :-)

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

Roxton stared at the darkened spiral stairway down which their housemates had descended from view, his thoughts in turmoil. _How am I going to do this? She's gone remarkably easy on us as a group, but there's no way I can expect her to get over this without explaining myself – and she could very well despise me when she learns the truth. Yet I owe her no less, not when she's standing right here at last. I can feel her gaze on me; she's waiting, and I have no idea where to begin._ A dozen opening lines skittered through his mind, each more disastrously inadequate than the one before it. He glanced over at her, and sure enough, Marguerite was watching him, her expression carefully neutral. _She's as nervous as I am about whether or not we can properly mend fences._ With a quick prayer for divine assistance, he straightened his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and asked with marked hesitance, "Would you like to spend a few moments on the balcony before we retire for the night?"

She nodded, and followed him to the moonlit corner where so many of their evenings had ended before she'd gone away. She leaned on the railing and gazed appreciatively outward, but didn't offer any conversational tidbits; she simply waited in silence to see what he had to say.

He was distracted by the fact that she'd retrieved her weapons again, as she had when they moved from the chairs to the dining table. She'd donned the quiver and bow as casually as she'd once worn jewelry, so accustomed to their presence that she'd automatically slipped them into place over her shoulder and carried them with her onto their balcony. It was a sad testimony to the fact that she'd spent so many months dependent only on herself for her safety.

It took him a few minutes to reorganize his thoughts enough to begin, although even then he stumbled to get the words out in anything like a coherent thought. "I wanted to explain… I've gone over and over that entire time, trying to understand how I could have … I should have known you wouldn't… why I accepted that you might endanger the Zanga like that!" He drew in a ragged breath, glanced over at her with his head hanging, and whispered unhappily, "I need to explain why I didn't trust you."

He sounded so utterly miserable that Marguerite had to quash her instinct to reach for his hand. She'd enjoyed his kisses earlier – _needed them, truth be told, particularly after facing the business end of three gun barrels_ – but that didn't mean she didn't still need answers, too. "So why didn't you believe me that night when I swore I was telling you the truth?" she prompted, and was pleased with herself for suppressing even a hint of the devastation she'd suffered.

Roxton's jaw clenched so tightly that it made her wince, his gaze focused on something in his memory, something that left his face twisted in self-loathing. She knew instantly that what had happened all those months ago had at least as much to do with his own past as hers, and a little more of the residual inner ache eased its hold on her heart; _John didn't think as badly of me as I thought!_ She tilted her head and waited attentively.

"Everything was all muddled," he said hoarsely. "I don't know how… I don't know if I can explain it even now, the way that the whole situation was mixed up in my mind. I – I – I couldn't separate the memories and the emotions of the charges against you, the battle over nothing more than a handful of missing jewels, the ludicrous loss of life, and all for what?! Shanghai Xan… Kaiser Wilhelm… Rice. Pretensions and ambitions."

Marguerite's brow knit as she tried to follow his train of thought. _"Pretensions and ambitions" could certainly apply to me, but what did those three men have to do with whether or not I stole the Marobi temple treasure?_

He didn't notice her bewilderment, but he was aware that he wasn't expressing himself well: he forced himself to focus, and smiled bitterly as he seized on the most recent name and spat it out. "Rice. Did you know that my disillusionment with him started before William's death? He was so obnoxiously cocksure that he was a great man, so convinced that he had the right to ride roughshod over anyone else in pursuit of his bloody trophies! He actually had the gall to declare that a village of several dozen African tribesmen _owed_ him the ivory and the gold in their temple, because of his superiority to them! And when they resisted, he mercilessly used the advanced weaponry of his party to enforce his will on them. It was a bloody massacre, and for what? Human life has immeasurable value, incomparable to trinkets offered to primitive gods!"

Now she was beginning to see where this was leading. "The battle between the Marobi and the Zanga reminded you of that, didn't it?" _And I was the apparent cause of the strife between the two tribes. He still should have believed me, but I can see how it might've affected his reactions. _

He nodded jerkily. "It can sound like such an adventure when talked up as a campfire tale, but the reality of the smoke, the gunpowder, the smell of blood, the screams of the wounded and dying, men with wives and families, boys who would never have a future – and it was my guns ending their lives or maiming them and leaving them unable to provide for themselves and their families – the futility of it, Marguerite, the foolishness of taking life over mere trifles! It's utterly revolting that we allow situations to reach such an impasse! It's the same whether the stakes are money or land or power. During the Great War, being in the trenches was no different. The principles behind it all seem very noble, but when countryside is laid waste and men are dying, the stench and the senselessness of the cost to advance one day only to retreat the next, then doing it all over the next day, week in and week out – "victory" they called it! All because one man tried to achieve his ambitions by forcing his will on others. When one person breaks the laws of God and man and threatens the security of others for his own profit, those who are able have a duty to defend the laws and the security of those who may be helpless. And although I knew better…" He raised a trembling hand to his forehead and closed his eyes, his voice thick with emotion. "The Kaiser's attempt to usurp and overpower those who were weaker, my various run-ins with Shanghai Xan's bravos, Rice's disregard for the primitive culture and the lives he destroyed in pursuit of his own glory,… all of that was all mixed up in my head with the Marobi and the Zanga and that bloody temple treasure… and you... you…"

When he faltered, Marguerite steadfastly completed his line of thought: "My willingness to beg, borrow or steal a fortune, no matter whom or what got in my way." She wasn't surprised at his hesitant nod. _Why shouldn't he equate me with such men? It's no more than the truth; there was a time when I would've stolen the Marobi's treasure and allowed the Zanga to suffer for it, if I believed the ends justified the means._ She'd become quite good at rationalizing such acts over the years, finding a good reason to do what she chose any time she thought it might benefit her. _After all, that's what I expected to do when I joined Challenger's expedition to come to this plateau; I was seeking the Ouroboros for the sake of finding my identity. I would've taken the artifact from wherever I found it, regardless of who might've owned it, and used it with barely a second thought about whether it was right or wrong to leave the others trapped here. _

It hurt, but she could see how John might be convinced of her culpability when he'd already been beset with his horrible recollections of the atrocities of the Great War and Rice's ill-fated African expedition, not to mention whatever he might have endured in his private battle against Xan's world-wide network of organized criminals. No wonder he'd been swayed to believe the worst of her. _He clearly blames himself for associating me with those at the root of his worst memories, as well he should when he's the main reason I'm no longer likely to do such things. He should have known that. But he's already damned himself for what happened with William. I didn't come home to add to that burden._ She took a deep breath and admitted, for John's benefit, "Given my similar history, I suppose it was perfectly plausible that I would raid a primitive temple if I thought I could get away with it."

"No!" he quickly denied, tensing, his attention returning fully to the present as she voiced her blunt self-assessment. Then, at her quirked eyebrow and knowing smirk, he amended ruefully, "Well, okay, yes, it did seem somewhat plausible – at the time." Yet this was an argument he'd had with himself repeatedly during the time she was gone from his side, and as quickly as he'd made that admission, he added firmly, "But you are _nothing_ like Rice, or Xan, or the Kaiser." He turned to face her as he spoke, so he could tenderly cup her cheek as he gazed into her eyes and earnestly assured her, "I know you better than that. Say what you will, you'll never convince me that you ever did anything because you thought yourself better than others, or because you held yourself to be above the law. Before we met, and even during the last four years, you might've broken or bent the law for a justifiable cause, but you, Marguerite Krux, would never proceed as ruthlessly, as mercilessly, or as inexcusably as Xan or Rice or the Kaiser." He paused to search her expression, to be certain she understood that he'd had no intention of comparing her to those men.

"That's a fine line of distinction, John," she murmured, touched by his generous estimation of her and his absolute conviction. _He's overstating the matter, of course. Except for the Marobi debacle, he's always thought better of me than I know myself to be. Still, it's nice to know he still believes well of me despite his willingness to fault me about the Marobi temple treasure._

"It may be a fine line, my dear, but that line makes all the difference," he insisted. "As I've told you before, you did what you had to do to survive alone, and during the war you went far beyond what was required by duty. As Parsifal you chose the deadliest role possible, not for fame or fortune but to stand against tyranny and injustice, at great risk to yourself." He waved a dismissive hand to silence her when she would have demurred. He'd heard her denigrate her war work by claiming she'd collected her share of spoils along the way, but he'd long ago realized that the selfish façade she automatically employed was mere camouflage to cover genuine heroism. He frowned sternly down at her. "Don't give me that same old story about the doors that were opened to you as Parsifal and how you used the war to further your own aims. If you truly did gain anything out of being a triple agent, you deserved it. You know as well as I do that the Kaiser, Rice and Xan would never have made the sacrifices you've made for others. In fact, I don't believe there are many men or women in the entire world who could match your sheer courage and heart."

She smiled slowly, misty-eyed at his staunch loyalty and wondering anew what she'd ever done to merit such love from this man. "I think you're a bit biased, John."

He slanted her a lopsided smile. "Perhaps. The one thing I'm one hundred percent sure of is that my emotions being muddled by the similarities to long past situations is a poor excuse for an unforgivable breach of my promises to you, Marguerite, for failing to trust you and your love for me."

The last phrase puzzled his attentive lady. "My love for you?" she repeated blankly.

He shifted uneasily, but he'd determined to make a clean breast of his failings, so he nodded gamely and prayed that his explanation wouldn't anger or alienate her as he feared it might. "You've always placed so much emphasis on wealth, on building an unassailable fortune. As much as I'd like to believe that my love for you can grant you the security you've craved… I don't know… If you had a choice…" His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat and tried again, reddening as he finally blurted it out. "I've always worried whether I would be enough for you, whether what I've offered you is sufficient for you to forego your reliance on riches as a means to ensure your future, and instead trust your future to me. What happened with the Marobi, that other stuff I just told you about is true, but those were only secondary reasons for the way I treated you. I was scared beyond belief that you'd found something you considered to be better than me." _There, I've finally told her the truth._

He forced himself to meet her wide-eyed gaze as he continued huskily, "I'm sorry, Marguerite. You didn't deserve my doubts. I understand if you're mad at me, believe me – I know your anger is well-warranted. But if you'll give me another chance, I won't fail you again. I know I don't deserve for you to believe that, but maybe in time…" he concluded miserably.

Marguerite was stunned. She barely comprehended his plea for a second chance, she was so staggered by his confession. It had never occurred to her that he might question whether her love for him was stronger than her need for material security. _He's always seemed so confident that we were meant to be together, so patient in waiting for me to admit it, too, that I never suspected my reticence about confessing my emotions might lead him to doubt his ability to retain my love, or to harbor such fear that something else – anything else! – in my life could be as important to me as him!_ Regardless of whether he'd broken his word to her, she had to lay his doubts to rest right this instant!

Dropping her guard completely for the first time since she'd stepped off the elevator that night, she smiled up at him and vowed, "John, I swear to you that if I had to choose between you and a fortune, I would choose you every time, regardless of the how large or how sparkly the fortune might be, and even if life with you meant doing without some silly luxury – or even if we had to do without so-called basics. I don't need anything but you. There's nothing and no one that could take my heart from you, and nothing and no one could be worth more to me than your love. My heart and soul are wholly yours, John, now and always, forever."

Astounded, he searched her expression and found only sincerity, no sign that she was toying with him, leading him on, or holding anything back. Moreover, her intense adoration of him was writ clear for him to witness, shining in her silver-green eyes, gleaming through her warm full smile, and dripping from her dulcet tones. As a declaration of her feelings for him, it far outweighed her admission of love when they'd been trapped in that cave. The fact that she, who was so leery of commitment, was offering him such an avowal was incredible, and he accepted it as the loving gesture of reassurance she'd intended. With a tremulous sigh, he briefly tugged her close and murmured huskily, "Thank you, Marguerite."

Her grin dimpled up at him as she drew back a step. "You're quite welcome." And before she'd even finished speaking, she hauled back and punched him with all her might, snapping his head back as her fist connected with his jaw.

He staggered back several steps, shook his head and blinked to clear his vision, steadied himself against the rail and stared at her. _What the…?!_

Marguerite stalked forward, her gray eyes stormy. Jabbing a finger into his chest to emphasize each point, she snarled, "You IDIOT! Don't you ever do that to me again! I'll slit your throat and feed you to the nearest Tyrannosaurus Rex! Is that clear?!"

Something unknotted in his chest with each furious poke of her finger, and relief flooded through him. _That's my girl!_ _Fire and steel!_ Roxton choked back a laugh as he raised his hands in surrender and assured her, "Yeah, perfectly clear."

She sniffed. "Moron." But the insult lacked her former steam, and when her face crumbled, he was ready to embrace her. She stepped into his arms, tucked her face against the joint of his shoulder and neck, wrapped her arms about his waist, and wept, silent sobs shaking her body.

The third emotional swing in as many minutes might have daunted another man, but Lord John Roxton hadn't courted his lady for four long years to be easily thrown into disarray. Although his stomach clenched at being the cause of her tears, his heart leapt because she was in his arms. She'd opened up to him like never before; she'd told him she loved him – more than her treasure! – admitted she was furious with him, and now she was allowing him to comfort her in her grief.

John rubbed her back soothingly as best he could around the quiver and bow, stroked her long dark hair, and murmured soft reassurances to her. _I'd hug her forever, if she'd let me. I'd even let her punch me again. I guess I should've seen that coming._ Although the way his jaw was aching, he hoped it was a good long while before he gave her cause to be quite this mad again. _Wait – what am I thinking?! I have no intention of ever giving her cause to be this angry again._

Marguerite being the resilient woman she was, it wasn't too long before she mastered her tears and somewhat bashfully apologized for dampening his shirt.

He refused to let her go when she would have drawn back. "No, stay," he whispered against her hair. "Please. Just for a little while." And to his delight, she did.

Releasing a tremulous sigh, she leaned against him and contentedly closed her eyes. "It's so good to be with you again," she sighed.

Roxton smiled. "Yeah, it is," he agreed. For the first time in months, barring those heady days when he'd been chasing her, which had involved a whole different level of stress, he could feel the tension seeping from his body. _The whole world suddenly feels right again, as if her presence here has knocked it back onto its proper axis after being misaligned for three quarters of the year. Somehow I don't think I'll be troubled by any nightmares tonight, not with Marguerite home safe and sound. _

Since his lady seemed as content as he to remain in this position, he indulged himself in the delight of having her in his arms for a quarter hour longer before he declared that it was high time he allowed her to enjoy her beauty sleep. He added that it was undeniably late, and she'd traveled a fair distance today without knowing whether she'd be welcome or not. When Marguerite didn't object, he escorted her back through the moonlit great room and down the stairs with his arm about her slim waist, holding her near for as long as possible.

He stopped and released her as they reached her bedroom doorway. _I forfeited my right to walk into her private sanctuary when I refused to listen to her claims of innocence over nine months ago. Despite her unexpected reassurance on the balcony, I still need to earn back her trust. I'll only feel free to come and go here as I did in the past once she invites me in, and that's not going to happen tonight._ Yet he was reluctant to part from her without double-checking on where they stood. "You'll be here in the morning, won't you?" he asked quietly, searching her face as he held her hands.

Touched by his discretion in not entering her room, and also by his desire for reassurance about her plans, she smiled. "Yes, John. I promise," she assured him gently. "Now get some sleep." She firmly pushed him in the direction of his room.

He glanced over his shoulder at her as he turned to go. "Good night, Marguerite."

"Good night." She watched until his lanky form was out of sight around the bend, then faced her room and squared her shoulders. She took a moment to gather her thoughts. _As much as I missed John and enjoyed him holding me on the balcony, I don't think I'm ready to just step back into our former rapport as if no time has passed._ _What's more, I think I really need at least a little time to readjust to the reality of being here._ One of the things she'd always appreciated about John was his knack for sensing when she needed a little space, and when to push her instead. His attentions earlier tonight had freed her from immediate worry about her relationship with him; both his earlier kisses and his recent prolonged embrace had been reassuringly familiar. But now she could definitely appreciate a bit of time to re-acquaint herself with her home, and some time to just _breathe_ after the sudden surplus of togetherness.

She slipped into her room – "_My_ room!" Whispering the words felt good. She'd been concerned lest it seem strange to her after all these months, but it was like stepping back in time.

It was the home conjured in her dreams, this room, this tree house, these people; they were her home.

Tears sprang to her eyes again as she noticed that Veronica had left all of her things in place, ready for her return at any time. _With no assurance that I'd ever come back, and despite the fact that space in the tree house is at a premium – not to mention that this is the nicest bedroom – the others left it just as it was! _It was clean, and was scented by the fresh flowers that rested in the vase on the window sill. The bouquet was massive, and represented her hunter's impartial gathering habits.

Marguerite smiled through her tears at the sight of the freshly-picked blossoms. John never bothered with coordinating colors or varieties; he just picked whatever blooms took his fancy. As a result, the conflicting aromas of his floral offerings had often been overwhelming. When she'd teased him about it, he'd shrugged and said she'd have to make do with whichever flowers reminded him of her, since he didn't have a local florist to do the job for him. Summerlee might have given him some hints, but the old gentleman had been parted from them before Roxton had begun presenting her with fistfuls of plateau wildflowers.

Veronica had once offered to allow him to cut stems from her proper garden, but he'd taken so many so often that she'd wryly rescinded her permission. A sly consultation between the two women had resulted in an agreement that the latest gift would be strategically pruned by whichever one of them found it first. Roxton had never noticed the changes; only Ned had realized what was going on, and he'd never exposed their collaboration.

With memories of similar gifts floating through her mind, Marguerite crossed to the window and held her breath as she gently touched the silky petals of the flowers. Apparently, Veronica hadn't seen these flowers yet today. Or perhaps the blonde had given up modifying her fellow hunter's wildly-varied choices. Either way, this new evidence of John's steady love was stuffed into one of their hostess's vases at the window. As in the old days, a whiff of the powerful resulting fragrance forced her to take an abrupt step backwards once she had to take another breath, but this time instead of immediately thinning out the bouquet she left it as it was. She could bear with the incompatible aromas for one night… or a couple of days. _John gathered and arranged these flowers for me when he didn't even know I was coming._ The fact that he'd prepared for her arrival, just as Veronica had kept her room clean and ready, was yet another proof that they'd wanted her to come. _I really am welcome and wanted, then._ She smiled out at the stars that shone over the familiar vista beyond her window, then turned back to the chamber she'd claimed as her own upon being stranded here.

Marguerite's eye was caught by another colorful sight, and she moved to the clothing she'd left behind that lifetime ago. She placed a reverent hand on the soft fabrics folded neatly on the shelf. Her eyes closed and she hummed in appreciation at the sensation. _Real clothes again. Silk._

Leaning her quiver and bow against the wall, she quickly stepped out of her plateau clothes, and donned a fondly remembered white nightgown and the robe hanging beside the shelves. _Mmm. The material feels so good! I'd almost forgotten what silk felt like against my skin._ She scooped up her weapons again and was at her mirror in a couple of quick steps – beloved, foggy old thing that it was, it was the best the Plateau had to offer since she'd broken her hand mirror, or at least the best she'd found so far – and she laid her bow and quiver on the dresser as she reached out for the hairbrush still placed exactly where she'd left it.

But her movement was arrested by dismay at the image she saw in the glass. _Am I really that brown, or it is only the lantern light? I've been out in the sun far too much, apparently. And heavens, no wonder the others wanted me to eat something! I look almost gaunt, wartime gaunt! Like the people in the last days of the War who couldn't get enough to eat!_ She examined herself with a frown as she slowly began to brush out her tangled hair. She was far thinner than she'd realized, and she didn't like it. _And then out on the balcony I added the delightful bonus of red, swollen eyes from crying! Yet John is still attracted to me; I could see it in his expression, feel it in his touch tonight. Love. It must be true what they say, that love is blind. _

"May I?"

Marguerite jumped and spun, dropping the hairbrush and snatching up her bow and an arrow from the dresser. She strung the arrow to her bow while still in motion, so that by the time she'd stopped turning she had the weapon fully drawn and ready to fire. Only belated recognition of the voice stayed its flight.

Veronica blinked in astonishment, caught flatfooted in the doorway. They stared at one another on opposite sides of the room, wide-eyed, one appalled at what she'd almost done, and the other realizing how fortunate she was that her friend had so much self-control.

With a sheepish blush, the silk-clad woman lowered the bow, released the arrow and tucked it back in its quiver on the dresser. She nodded her permission to the blonde to enter. "Sorry," she said with an apologetic grimace, gesturing behind her at the weapons as she turned to face the doorway again.

Veronica moistened her lips and stepped down into Marguerite's room. "Wow, when John told us how fast you were, I thought he was just exaggerating," she commented. If the older woman was as accurate as she was speedy, they might just have to redistribute the chores again.

"John told you I was fast?" Marguerite flushed with pleasure.

"Yes, he did, and you are," Veronica's lips twitched, but she suppressed the smile. "Is there anything you need tonight, Marguerite?"

"No, thank you. Everything is perfect," the brunette replied warmly, watching the curious blonde kneel to gather the supple leather clothing that had been discarded in favor of the silks. "Honestly, you've made my homecoming very nice, Veronica. Thank you."

Veronica looked up from examining the material and grinned. "I would've thrown you a big party if I'd known for sure when you were coming." Her smile faded. "We were beginning to worry that you wouldn't, you know. Ned said you would. But it's been so long since John saw you…"

Marguerite nodded, moving gracefully to the bed. She patted the mattress beside her as she seated herself. "It took me a while to decide I should come home. I'm not sure how to explain it," she began slowly as Veronica joined her. "It was like I was asleep. Not thinking or feeling, just… existing. And then I saw all of you that day, and… everything came rushing back."

Veronica, seeing the shadows in the brunette's green eyes, sat down and draped the leather material over her bare thighs before she slid an arm around her friend's shoulders. "Our betrayal," she whispered. Marguerite nodded silently. "But you did hear us ask you to forgive us, didn't you? In the jungle? You were there that morning when Roxton thought he felt your presence?"

Marguerite nodded again. "Yes. I heard you. And I didn't forget your apologies, although," she admitted with a sardonic smile, "I tried hard enough to ignore them. There wasn't time to think about it while John was tracking me, but afterwards… It was all I could think of for days."

"I meant it, you know. I can't begin to express how much I regret not believing you, Marguerite," Veronica said sincerely, her blue eyes shimmering. "I should have known better than to think you would risk the Zanga for some stupid jewels."

Marguerite slipped her own arm about Veronica's waist and hugged her, wanting to exonerate her friend nearly as much as she'd wanted to ease John's guilt, but knowing it wouldn't be honest. She couldn't tell the younger woman that she'd forgiven and forgotten the way they'd turned on her – especially not while all these confused emotions were still simmering beneath the surface – but she could offer a first step. "Thank you. I appreciate you saying so."

"I mean it," the blonde insisted earnestly. "We talked about it a lot, and there might be excuses, but there isn't a good enough reason in the world for not believing you. You have every right to be furious. I'll do anything you want to make it up to you – anything! You name it."

One dark brow arched. _Now that's just too good a chance to pass it up_. Marguerite indulged in a slow smirk, and resisted the urge to laugh as her friend – the little sister she'd somehow adopted – clearly thought better of the sweeping vow she'd just made even before Marguerite drawled, "Anything?"

Veronica swallowed, but nodded. "Anything," she confirmed and stalled for time as she sought for a way to place reasonable parameters on her unlimited offer. "I'll do your mending, or go with you to dig diamonds, or… or… take your turn at tending the lift's gears, or…"

_She's taking this way too seriously. I can always come back to it later._ Marguerite relaxed her smile to one of genuine amusement.

Instantly Veronica realized she'd been had. Her tension eased and she smiled. "Maybe I could teach you to cook?" she teased.

Nodding approvingly, she played along. "I thought you wanted to do something to make it up to _me_, not to everyone else." Veronica laughed. Then Marguerite added sincerely, "I think perhaps only time will mend things. However, as Arthur was fond of saying, today is a good day for a new beginning."

Although Veronica was fairly certain it wasn't going to be as easy for Marguerite as she was making it sound, she appreciated the sentiment. "You're right, and you coming back definitely made this a good day, and a good new beginning. I mean it, though, when I say that any time you want to talk about it, I'll be ready to talk, too, about absolutely anything you want to talk about."

The brunette hesitated, gnawing at her bottom lip. _Talk about it. "It". That day._ _Is it really okay to bring it up at this point? I've wondered for such a long time just exactly what I did to the man to make him accuse me of such a thing. Will I be opening a can of worms here?_

Naturally, Veronica noticed the change in her demeanor. Quirking a brow at her, she prompted, "Yes?"

Cautiously, Marguerite ventured, "That day I saw you three in the jungle, John said you knew the truth, which means someone must have figured out who really took the Marobi sacred treasure. Since I didn't do it, would you mind telling me whether you ever learned why Tahumai lied?"

Her friend's jaw dropped. "My goodness, haven't we told you?" she gasped. Before Marguerite finished shaking her head, the younger woman realized that they'd all been so busy being careful what they said that they'd failed to give her the rest of the story. Veronica groped for the right words. "Well actually, Tahumai was the thief, and blaming you was apparently just a spur of the moment idea."

Veronica succinctly explained about his capture and confession.

"What?" Marguerite was flabbergasted. "Are you telling me he did it for love?!"

"I'm afraid so."

To her friend's puzzlement, Marguerite's lips twitched.

"You think it's funny?" Veronica gaped incredulously. That was not at all the reaction she'd expected.

Indeed she did, as much to her bemusement as Veronica's, although she didn't think it would be right to relate exactly what was running through her mind, not when the situation was still so raw for each of them. Her laughter gurgled up, despite her companion's astonishment. _It's so ironic! He betrayed his people's principles, stole from another tribe, and then lied, all for the sake of love, and everyone believed him. I accepted my people's principles, straightened out my life, and told the truth, all for the sake of love, and no one believed me at all!_ Marguerite shook her head and, still chuckling at the irony, waved a dismissive hand and promised, "I'll explain it someday, but not now. So what happened to Tahumai and the treasure?"

Veronica eyed her dubiously, but answered, "Jacoba handed both over to the Marobi, along with a hefty portion of his personal treasury to redeem the honor and standing of the Zanga. The Marobi executed Tahumai, took their treasure and went home. When Assai got back from telling us they'd found the thief, and told Jacoba you were gone, he sent sixty warriors to help look for you -" She broke off, unable to face talking about the months they'd spent searching in vain. Tears filled her eyes again.

Marguerite patted her shoulder, comforted and somewhat impressed that not only her housemates but also the Zanga had cared enough to search for her. "Never mind, I think we've both cried enough, don't you?"

Veronica blinked back her tears and nodded. Marguerite had always hated public tears. "Yeah, I think so. For today, at least."

The two women looked at each other, and then broke into giggles. That brought back a whole different set of memories, and, inspired, Veronica brightened. "Hey, why don't you let me brush your hair out while we have a cup of tea?" she offered, pointing toward the hairbrush the other woman had dropped when she'd reacted to Veronica's voice behind her. "You can tell me how long it took you to figure out how to tan these hides so well." She smoothed an approving hand over the leather skirt Marguerite had worn home.

Marguerite nodded, her own wide smile breaking loose as it occurred to her that her stomach had settled. _I might be able to handle a cup of tea and a snack_, she decided, remembering the scrawny woman in her mirror.

They rose to their feet, and Marguerite retrieved the fallen brush and handed it to Veronica as she fell into step beside her. The two women headed back upstairs toward the kitchen. They were chortling again before they even reached the great room as Marguerite began sharing her misadventures in tanning her own animal hides to serve as her plateau clothing.

There probably wasn't anything Veronica might have suggested that would have pleased Marguerite more that doing this. They'd begun these "girl sessions", as Challenger had christened their late night visits together, several months before the Marobi treasure fiasco. The women would shoo the men off to bed and stay up late, drinking tea, doing one another's hair in all sorts of styles, or pawing through Veronica's parents' stored trunks of clothing while planning how to modify or re-use the materials. They'd talked about everything and nothing, and it had quickly deepened their burgeoning bond.

In his room, Ned reacted to the sound of the women's voices by smiling and reaching for the journal he'd brought down with him for this express purpose. He'd waited for everyone to settle down before he returned to today's journal entry. Tonight, at last, he could write the words he'd wanted to write for nearly a year: "Marguerite is home with us at last."

Roxton, who had already shed his clothes and was stretched out on his bed in total comfort for the first time in longer than he cared to recall, grinned as the sound of their soft laughter reached his ears. Gratitude filled his heart. _She's home, she's safe, and I have a second chance with her. I won't waste it._

Of course, they would still have issues to work through, trust to rebuild, but when had that not been true after a fracas? He drifted off to sleep to the sound of Marguerite's voice overhead.

And the remaining member of the tree house family settled with a contented sigh into a more relaxed position in his bed, a grin playing about his lips as he eyed the ceiling and shook his head at the feminine voices emanating from the upper level. "Well, Jessie, my love," he murmured to his distant wife, "I think we can stop worrying about our Marguerite. It seems that everything is well on its way to being quite normal again."

And he too closed his eyes and let slumber claim him.

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

Although this is how the original 2002 version of the story ended, I wrote a "coda" back in 2005 that has never been posted. That will be posted shortly as the final chapter for this 2013 version of "Not A Game".


	9. Chapter 9 - Coda

_**Not A Game, CODA**_

Summary: _Marguerite is back with her family at the tree house, but something still isn't right._

Author's Note: _My thanks to Zakiyah and DNash for their beta skills on both the re-write of the original and for this coda. Any remaining conceptual or character errors are mine alone._

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

Several months after the memorable night of Marguerite's return, Roxton found her on the lower balcony, facing a spectacular sunset. She smiled vaguely at him as he joined her at the railing, accepting the contact as he leaned shoulder to shoulder beside her, although she didn't speak. Her eyes returned to the horizon, but he was certain she hadn't noticed the vivid coloring of the sky. "It's beautiful tonight, isn't it?" he asked lightly.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, the sunset is lovely," she agreed after a moment's blank confusion, confirming his suspicion that she hadn't been watching the picturesque onset of dusk. Instead she was once again deep in thought, as she had been far too often for his peace of mind since her return. She would disappear for a while into the solitude of her room or some out-of-the-way corner of the tree house until one of the others sought her out again.

Roxton didn't believe, as Challenger had theorized, that Marguerite was spending time in the various secluded sections of the tree house because she was no longer accustomed to being with people all day, although he agreed that it could be part of the reason. He was certain there was a deeper issue at stake. He was convinced that she was mulling over something serious, something that probably involved him since he'd noticed she often cast thoughtful glances in his direction when she grew quiet, before she quietly wandered off like this. Even in the midst of last week's Christmas celebration, a tree house tradition she'd come to wholeheartedly enjoy in the last few years, she had lapsed into silent reflections and drifted away from the festivities a time or two.

He'd nearly asked her about it more than once, but he'd learned long ago that unless danger was imminent, it was best to wait for her to open up to him in her own time. _Even today there are too many things I still don't know about her past, too many ways to end up with my foot in my mouth. Her eyes are shadowed far too often; the last thing I want to do is be the cause of further troubles by insisting that she talk to me on my schedule. All it did in the past was drive her farther from me, give her more reason to hesitate to confide in me. _Now that she was back, he was disciplining himself according to those hard-learned lessons. After living alone for such an extended period of time, much of the progress Marguerite had made in confiding her thoughts to him had been lost – _not that she's ever been completely comfortable with that aspect of our relationship,_ he admitted ruefully to himself as he studied her profile. _But I know her so much better now. Whatever it is, she'll tell me when she's ready. I only need to be here for her when that time comes._ _Patience. She needs me to be patient._

_She's stepped back into life at the here with relative ease in almost every other area of our lives. In fact, aside from her lack of complaints, her proficiency with her new weapons, and these mysterious musings of hers, it's almost as if she's never been gone at all. She does her share of the chores, and she's already caught up on the mending Veronica couldn't do. She works with Challenger in the lab when her other tasks are done, and she's been willing to flirt with me when time and opportunity permit. Her appetite's returned to normal, and she's filling out a little. She's even drinking coffee again in the mornings._ His lips curved upward as he mentally reviewed all these positive things._ When she's ready, she'll tell me what's on her mind, _he reminded himself for the thousandth time. _I just need to be thankful that she's here. And I am thankful. I'm a very lucky man._

Aware that he was studying her with tender patience, Marguerite glanced self-consciously over at the hunter. _ He's been doing this a lot lately, as if he understands that I'm trying to work out the best way of saying something to him. It's too important to mess it up. Is now the time?_ Curious about his lingering grin, she asked curiously, "What are you smiling about?"

Without hesitation he replied, "I'm just glad to be with you."

Her eyes widened a little, and then the smile he so loved appeared. "I'm glad to be with you, too," she said softly. She turned to face him, leaning her hip against the railing, and examined him for a long moment. He would have taken her into his arms and kissed her, but he saw something flicker in her eyes and recognized familiar signs: her shoulders straightened, she subtly moved a half-step back and simultaneously swallowed hard, her gaze skittering away from his as she mustered her courage.

His heart raced and he fought back his sudden exultation when she took a deep breath and once more met his steady regard. _She's decided to tell me what's been on her mind! This is it! I've got to react right! Particularly after what happened the last time I didn't listen, I have to hear her with an open mind and let her know it's safe to talk to me about anything!_

"John, I've been thinking…" She hesitated.

He nodded gravely. "I'm listening," he assured her.

Her smile was fleeting. "Why weren't you angry with me for staying away so long?"

He blinked. _Well, there's one I never saw coming._ "Angry? Why would I be angry with you, my love, when it was our fault you went away to begin with?"

"But any of the rest of you would have known to come back sooner. I knew I was innocent. I should have realized you'd figure it out sooner rather than later, but I stayed away instead of trusting you all enough to come home. It caused everyone a lot of extra work looking for me, and then the worry when you couldn't find me. Everyone had months of unnecessary heartache. And when you did find me, all these months later, I ran away. And on top of all that," she continued, fidgeting with her belt buckle and looking down, "when you chased me, I played some rather unfair tricks on you."

_Well, that was a polite way of saying she ran circles around me!_ Roxton smiled tenderly. "I don't fault you for staying away, Marguerite; none of us did. We treated you abominably. And as for the chase you led me… You did well. I was proud of you."

Her head came up sharply, her wide eyes meeting his in astonishment. "Proud of me?" _I didn't expect that! What on earth was there for him to be proud of me for?!_

"Yes; you did a great job of using whatever came to hand to throw me off your trail. Your methods may have been unconventional, but you were terrific. Besides, your tactics were a lot gentler than they could have been. Given what had happened, you had no real reason to trust me. You could have shaken me off much more easily if you'd been willing to put me in danger, but you never did. So I'm impressed and proud of you, even if you did get the best of me a time or two."

She couldn't resist teasing just a little; "Only a time or two?"

He chuckled. "Okay, fairly often."

Her smile flashed at his acknowledgment, but disappeared all too quickly. "Why weren't you angry?" she repeated her initial question. _I've thought this through so often now; it just has to work! Mustn't get distracted from the topic._

His brow puckered. "Marguerite, I love you."

_Perfect!_ she exulted, but hid her delight at his reply behind a frown. _Have to stick to the plan_. "So the reason you weren't angry with me was because you love me?"

"Well, I'll admit I was pretty miffed while I was crawling out of that bog," he said lightly, hoping to coax out her beautiful smile again. When she continued to look up at him expectantly, worriedly, he reached over to cup her cheek, trying to reassure her. "But I got over it because I love you."

"You forgave me?"

"Right." He let his hand drop and watched her as she turned her head to gaze thoughtfully out over the jungle again; he waited. He had a feeling there was more to come.

"You were raised in the church? I mean, you attended church regularly?" she asked without looking back to him.

He did a double-take. "Church? Um, yes," he confirmed cautiously. _Now what does this have to do with anything?_

"The church teaches that God has given laws that all people must obey, and that there is a penalty demanded of those who are guilty of sin against God, just as there are penalties when someone is found guilty of breaking man's laws?" She still didn't look over at him; she concentrated on phrasing her questions exactly right.

Roxton nodded again, throat tightening. Guilt was a topic with which he was all too familiar, and he knew that this beautiful lady bore a burden of guilt as well, although once he'd learned more of the truth about her past he'd tried to convince her that she shouldn't consider herself to be one of the condemned ones. Despite his efforts, he knew Marguerite believed herself damned for the things she had done; her soul, as she'd once put it, "a little the worse for wear".

"And there's nothing a person can do to redeem himself, to save himself or herself? Nothing a person can do to be accepted, to be clean and whole again? To have a clean slate? To have some chance at a good life, and being loved, once they've broken these laws? There's nothing a person can do to avoid the penalties? That's what the church teaches?"

"Right," he agreed slowly. "But there's more to the story, Marguerite. It didn't end there, leaving people without hope. The church also teaches that although people can't save themselves, God is able to save them. I'm guessing you didn't have to learn a catechism at your mother's knee?"

She made a face at him and said dryly, "That would be a safe guess," as she turned again so that her somber silver-green gaze could watch his deep green eyes.

"Well, I did have to learn my catechism, despite frequent complaints and some pretty creative attempts to resist. There's a passage I had to memorize. I don't think I have it word perfect any longer, but it goes something like this: For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son – that's Jesus, you know," he added, and she curled her lip at him. _Dumb, Roxton!_ he scolded himself, wincing at his _faux pas_. "Right, of course you know that." He cleared his throat and went on, "So, God did this – sent Jesus – so anyone who believes in Jesus doesn't have to perish, but can have everlasting life. The next verse repeats again that God sent His Son so that the world could be saved instead of condemned. So there's hope, you see? There's hope of God's acceptance for _everyone_, no matter what, because He sent His Son to pay the penalty for breaking His laws."

"God did this because of love?" She looked down again, and realized she had nervously clasped her hands so tightly that her knuckles were white. _Calm down; it's going fine._

Roxton nodded, well aware of her anxiousness.

"Do you believe God loves me?" she asked thoughtfully, glancing up through her lashes at him.

He smiled. _That's easy_. "Oh, absolutely."

"Despite everything? Even though I've done what I've done?"

"Of course. There isn't anything you could do that would keep God from loving you." Her brow furrowed slightly. _Can't let her keep doubting_. "Look, do you believe that I love you?" he asked.

Her lips curved upwards slightly. "Yes. I don't understand it, but I believe it." _That's certainly the God's honest truth. John's love for me is a constant cause for wonder_. _And it's the very thing that's going to make my point. I only hope it's enough to make a difference in his life, as it has in mine._

"Good." He paused to consider his choice of words. _If I can say this right, I've got her now._ Earnestly, he said, "Much as I'd like to claim that no one could love you more than I do, we both know I'm nowhere near being as perfect, all-powerful, and all-wise as God – I'm not as loving as He is, either. You don't have to understand it; you only have to accept that God loves you, like you've accepted that I love you. You see?"

"So God can forgive me, just as we all forgave each other when you welcomed me back home?" she asked softly, unable to hide the lilt of pleasure from her tone of voice. _This is going to work – it has to work!_

"Definitely. Exactly like that, only better. Do you understand now? You aren't damned, Marguerite." He reached over and cupped her cheek again, thumb tenderly stroking her soft skin.

One fine brow arched at his last comment. "Yes, I understand," she nodded against his palm, "But I already knew that."

Startled, he drew back slightly. "Then what –?"

_This is it. Get it right, Marguerite!_ "I've been thinking about it since I returned, and I figured out that the reason I forgave you and came home, and the reason each of you have forgiven me, too, over these past years, well, it had to be love, didn't it? It's so much bigger, grander, than anything I've known before, and it made me think about God." Her face lit at the memory, and she smiled at him – that unreserved smile that never failed to steal away his breath. "When I first realized that I could be forgiven not just by my family, but by God, too, it was the most incredible thing – I felt so free!"

The man who loved her smiled back; he'd so rarely seen the happiness reflected in her face at this moment, it was well-worth cherishing. Her soft hand lifted to his face to caress his stubbled jaw, and her silver-green eyes shone up at him. "The future is so full of potential now, John," she whispered.

"Of course it is," he agreed simply, delighted at her conclusion. But then, unexpectedly, her smile dimmed. He searched her expressive face, concerned. _So much for potential. Something still isn't right_. "What's troubling you, Marguerite?"

"You, my love."

Taken aback, he stared down into her now-somber eyes as she said, "I believe that you love me, and that your love for me outweighs all my sins in your eyes. If God's love is greater than your love, and His love provides a way to wipe out all my sins so that I'm no longer damned, even though I deserve to be, then the same is true for you, isn't it?" Seeing the familiar pained, haunted look descend over his face as he realized she was referring to his brother, she reached out and clutched both of his hands.

She hurried on, her words tumbling out urgently. "Do you remember what the old man said – Osric's keeper? He said you were pure of soul, except for a corner of your heart that you've chosen to curse because _you _believe you're responsible for your brother's death. It's a death that you were never guilty of in God's eyes, John, only in your own eyes. Well, you just told me that God's love is infinitely greater than our human love, and that His forgiveness is far greater than human forgiveness. I love you, John Richard Roxton, more than my own life. If _I_ love you so much, then certainly God loves you even more and holds you guiltless about William."

Roxton started to shake his head in denial.

She pulled his hands to her chest, close to her heart, and insisted, tears glistening but unshed, "If my guilt, my sins, can be covered by love, your love and God's, so can yours. Look, you believe I've forgiven you for what happened, right?"

"Yes," John answered immediately, certain of that despite his confusion.

"And you believe I love you, don't you?" Marguerite's eyes gleamed with the intensity of her emotions.

"Absolutely."

"So, John, you just said you forgave me, didn't you? And you said I'm not damned. If I'm forgiven because of love, then John, you must be as well. You can't possibly be damned! If God loves you more than I do, then there's no way He holds you responsible for William's death, or for mistakenly breaking your promises to me."

He stared down at her. _No, I'm – it's not – she can't be right_ – Stunned, he ran through her reasoning in his head again, but there was nothing he could disagree with.

Marguerite waited, gnawing on her lower lip as she watched him struggle with the concept and its ramifications. _What can I do next if this doesn't work?_ Roxton had been bending over backwards these last few months to make up for yielding to his fear that day so long ago. _Every conversation, every touch, every look he gives me now is shadowed by his guilt, and I know that deep down he doubts that he can ever do enough to make up for what he did. In essence he's damning himself for that betrayal just as he damned himself for the accident that claimed William's life. We can't move forward while he's struggling so with this._ It had taken a good deal of soul searching of her own, some subtle questioning of the others to clarify her recollections about religious teachings, and a many hours of strategic planning for this conversation. The question was, would drawing on the church instruction from his youth guide him to the truth and help him?

His eyes narrowed, and he frowned, replaying it over and over in his head and looking for a flaw in her logic, but each time yielded the same result: if Marguerite could be forgiven by God – and he had no qualms about the truth of that – then so could he. And that meant that rather than future damnation… they really could build a future together! _She's right. It's not God that's damned me for what happened with either my brother or Marguerite. It's only me, my own grief and guilt. _

It was as if a light had broken through a pall that had dimmed his life for years now, even his time with Marguerite. Suddenly it was all clear, and he was laughing. "You're right!" He caught her into his arms and danced her across the balcony. "Oh, Marguerite, I love you! You're wonderful! And you're absolutely right!"

She laughed, too, delighted to see him so carefree, breathless at the rapid pace of their exuberant waltz as he whirled her around and around. For the first time since she'd come home, there was no constraint in his behavior toward her, no shadow of guilt over his betrayal, no subtle sign that he was trying to prove himself worthy again. _Thank God, it worked! He's finally realized he's not cursed! Based on my own history, we'll probably have to talk about it again, but the worst is over. Now, for the first time, _both_ of us truly believe it's possible to overcome the past and build a new future together. It'll probably never be easy, but I think the Sisters just might have been right that with love anything is possible._ _We just might have our very own "happily ever after"!_

Roxton abruptly stopped in midstep, swung Marguerite up into his arms and joyously kissed her. And with the shroud of Roxton's guilt now cast off, it finally felt like it was the right time to answer his obvious passion with her own, fully and freely.

Sensing the release of this last restraint between them, he gladly deepened and prolonged the kiss. When the need for air forced them to break apart long moments later, she happily nestled in his supporting arms while they regained their breath. Her pulse was still racing when she looked up, flushed and aglow, and murmured lovingly, "That future you've spoken about for us? I think I'm ready to talk about having that with you. We're going to be happy, aren't we?"

His dark green eyes shining with devotion, John replied softly, "Immeasurably."

~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~TLW~~~

** _I Peter 4:8 (King James Version)_

And above all things have fervent charity (love) among yourselves: for charity (love) shall cover the multitude of sins.

** _John :16-17 (King James Version)_

For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through Him might be saved.


End file.
